


Bricks

by Mirimea



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5544704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirimea/pseuds/Mirimea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kevin Price is only a few months shy of his twenty-first birthday when his right to his own name gets signed over to the government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really don’t know what to say, other than that this trope is such a guilty pleasure of mine, it’s embarrassing. The system itself in this story is based off the one that is described in Hedgerose’s (Def)inition series, but adapted for this story (I don’t mean to steal ideas, sorry!) This story is entirely planned out thanks to a sleepless night where I needed entertainment, so hopefully updates will not be too infrequent? 
> 
> Furthermore, this is corny, it’s cracky and it’s angsty, and I'm taking plenty of artistic liscence. Please indulge me. :D

Kevin Price is only a few months shy of his twenty-first birthday when his right to his own name gets signed over to the government.

He doesn’t see the actual procedure, it has all been taken are of before his parents greet him at the airport as he steps off the plane from Uganda. The last two years have been tumultuous, tiring, inspiring and _wonderful_ , and he knows that his parents may not understand, but he is pretty sure that he can make them see what Kevin himself had learned to see.

He just wishes that he had been able to convince Arnold to follow him back to America; life with be a little lonelier without his mission companion in it. But Arnold has been acting strange for months before they had been schedules to leave and eventually the truth had burst out of him: he wanted to stay with Nabulungi. And in the end, there wasn’t much that Kevin could say to that and he had been forced to step onto the plane back alone.

His parents don’t drive him home immediately; instead they stop at the same restaurant they always go to for family celebrations, and Kevin is too fascinated by the clean streets and drinkable tap water to pay attention to the stiffness in the way his father and mother hold themselves.

When they show him the contract, Kevin doesn’t know what he’s looking at. It takes a minute, then a longer moment of disbelief as he tries to find the weakness in the uncharacteristically stony faces of his parents, trying to see the joke, but it is difficult to get them to even meet his eyes.

His father calls him a heretic, which would be laughable if it hadn’t been in such a serious tone of voice. They don’t want him in the house. Maybe this will help him repent and find his way back to God. Maybe they will all meet again in the afterlife. And then his mother starts to cry, which is uncomfortable and insane because if anyone has the right to cry here, it really ought to be Kevin, right? Except nothing seems quite real, and he can’t feel much of anything.

In the end, Kevin doesn’t even get to see his siblings again. Instead, his former parents drive him to the service training facilities in Orem. It feels like he is walking in slow-motion through a thick fog, he doesn’t even know how he is supposed to react when a tracking chip is pushed beneath his skin and he is fitted with a metallic collar that could have looked like a solid silver choker if it hadn’t been so heavy with implication and social stigma.

It is only after a few days of being referred to as a number instead of his name that he realizes that he doesn’t actually _have_ a name anymore. And if what he remembers from the horror stories they used to tell each other back in school, where some kids had felt this threat to be more real than others, his birth certificate and his I.D cards have already been destroyed, and his social security number removed.

For someone this old to be signed over against their will is exceptionally rare, he realizes. At twenty-one, anyone is free to sign themselves over for a guaranteed three meals a day and mediocre healthcare, in exchange for their identity and their freedom, but once you are legally considered an adult, no one else has the right to take your entire life from you the way Kevin’s parents just had.

Somehow, that will be the hardest part for Kevin to accept. If his parents could have let him be for another couple of months, he wouldn’t be forced to spend the rest of his life in the Service Worker system, for hire to anyone that wants to pay.

~*~

At twenty-six, Connor McKinley finally hands in the final revisions of his master thesis and leaves the campus to walk into a world of unemployment.

Nevertheless, he is pretty pleased with how things have turned out for him so far. Maybe in retrospect it had been ill-advised of him to come out to his parents the first thing he had done when he returned from Uganda, high on success, freedom and friendship, because it had cost him his family and his college funds. But once he had managed to secure the regular student loans, he had been able to enroll in the community college; maybe not the most prestigious place to study, but it had a program in social studies that interested him. The college had a pretty good HBTQ club as well, it had turned out, and Connor doesn’t know how it always happens to him, maybe he just appears to be supremely reliable, but in his fourth year he had even ended up as the president of the club. Quite far away from the closeted mission district leader he had once been.

It is strange now, to imagine that he had actually spent two entire years of his life in Uganda, to spread the word of God to the generally much more sensible natives.

They had been so _young_.

“We’re still young,” Poptarts protests when Connor tries to put this feeling into words during their monthly meet-up; his old mission companion is the only other person from the Uganda mission that he still keeps in touch with. “Do you really feel that different?”

Connor thinks about it and has to admit that while his life is completely different in many aspects, everything inside of him is still the same. The same since he had been much younger than nineteen, really. A lot of the time he still feels like the chubby, insecure ten-year old he had once been, who used to have a crush on his young male teacher and who had begun to realize that his fondness for everything glittery and colorful advertise. He shakes his head. “You have a point. But we were _stupider_ , at least.”

Poptarts grins. “That’s probably true.”

Connor smiles back and he knows that both of them are thinking about the good old times. Or not so good: it certainly hadn’t always been. “Seven years,” he says after a moment. “We never did have a reunion.”

“I don’t even know what half of them do nowadays. Except Cunningham, he’s still in Uganda, the last I heard.” Poptarts grin turns a little wicked. “Did you ever get in touch with Price again?”

Connor has to bite his lip to keep from sticking his tongue out. So much for feeling old. His crush on the former Elder Price had been one of the most open secrets in the history of open secrets. Later on, he had found out from Poptarts that there had been bets going on regarding Price’s sexual orientation, but in the end, nothing had ever been really confirmed. “No. He never responded to my friend request.” And his Facebook profile was probably inactive, since the profile picture hadn’t changed in years.

“Maybe he just wants to forget about everything and move on.” Poptarts shrugs; Connor nods, unconvinced. Kevin Price might have been pretty disillusioned when he had first arrived in Uganda, but they had all been, really, and Connor had certainly done nothing to stop it. But over the course of the year that Connor had known him, Kevin had mellowed is some ways and grown brighter in others.

“Anyway,” Poptarts says after a moment, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. “How’s the job hunt going?”

Connor feels his contemplative smile drop from his face. “It’s…going.”

Poptarts eyebrows rise. “Okay.”

Connor grimaces. “Yeah, sorry. It’s just… I have a job offer, but I don’t like it.”

“Doing anything for some job experience, right?” Poptarts leans back in his chair, then pauses. “Unless you’re talking about, like…prostitution, or?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Connor snaps, feeling color rise on his cheeks at the mere suggestion. Poptarts raises his hands in a mock-apology, grinning again. “No, it’s at the Service Worker center.”

“Oh.” Poptarts’ grin fades. He keeps his mouth open as if to say something more, but the only thing that comes out is a non-committal, “I see.”

“Yes,” Connor says moodily, and adds another lump of sugar to his half-cold tea, mostly just to have something to glare at.

He is not usually a passionate guy. He is reliable, responsible, a worker, and he enjoys administrating and making sure things run smoothly, but he is not a leader and he is not a visionary. That doesn’t stop him from hating the Service Worker system quite intensely. It has undergone quite a few changes in the last seventy or eighty years, both its name and its administration, but in the end no one really holds any illusion that it has ever stopped being what it has always been: slavery. Even with increased demands from the UN, from Russia and several independent nations, the country clung to the system. Perhaps due to the mere tradition, perhaps due to the financial aid that it provided.

Connor had spent several years as a young teenager half-convinced that if he didn’t manage to successfully turn off his…urges, his parents would sign him over to the program, just to be rid of him and the potential shame and mean-spirited gossip he would have brought to the family. And once a person is in the system, there is no legal way to get out, the person exists literally only as a Service Worker for the state or for whoever decides to pay for your contract for a while. It’s inhumane.

“So,” Poptarts says carefully. “What would the job consist of?”

Connor tries his tea; it’s now both cold and sickeningly sweet. He sighs and puts the cup down. “It’s not training, or anything like that. It’s overseeing the contracts, Buyer inspections, that sort of thing.”

“So you’d be one of the good guys, right?”

“I guess.” As much of a good guy you can be when you earn your money from a system that deals with the trade of non-consenting people, at least. But from what Connor has heard from previous upperclassmen, the system is a quite common way to kick off a career within their chosen field, even though most people move on to less morally questionable areas once they have worked long enough to get a good reference. “I just…don’t like it.”

Poptarts smiles, brows furrowed in an expression of sympathy. “I know you don’t. And just to be clear, I don’t like it either.”

“I know. But you’re lucky you have a family business to fall back to,” Connor says, and sees Poptarts’ expression turn guarded, the way it always does when Connor mentions anything related to family.

“Have you, you know, spoken to your family at all, lately?”

Connor shakes his head. “No. That’s not what I… no I haven’t.” When Poptarts keeps giving him the _look_ , he smiles slightly, just to reassure him. “It’s fine. It’s been a long time. I guess I should stop being picky and just take that darn job, right?”

“That’s not what I said,” Poptarts protests, then gets a better look at Connor’s face and seems to realize that he is not in the mood to pursue this topic of conversation any longer. “Will you join us for Christmas this year?”

“That’s almost half a year away,” Connor says, amused but touched. He has spent several Christmases with Poptarts’ family since, well, since Uganda. The family is conservative but sweet, and he has never felt less than welcome in their home, despite his sexuality.

“Just making sure,” Poptarts replies and finishes his chocolate.

~*~

Connor doesn’t know if he ought to be happy or annoyed that the job includes everything Connor considers his personal strengths. He has only been at the center for a little more than a week, and he is already settling into the routines quite well. If it hadn’t been for the actual reasons behind it, he might even have enjoyed it. But at least he gets to see that not everyone that are working within the system are one-dimensionally evil, which he really ought to have understood on his own.

A middle-aged woman named Clarice becomes his supervisor, and she makes it very clear that she considers their job to be one of the most important things in the world.

“We are the only ones that can make sure that these people have any resemblance of legal rights,” she says on his first day. “Such as they are. Don’t forget that.” She is a middle-aged woman with long brown hair and large, round glasses that should look strange but she manages to make fashionable. Connor likes her.

And Connor doesn’t forget it. He reads reports and personal journals, and tries to distance himself from the way people’s attributes and temperaments, medical records, educations and qualifications are all described as objectively as if the people had been potential breeding animals. He begins to think that Clarice is right, in a way, because the very least they can do is try to make sure every Buyer obey their part of the contracts and make sure that their Workers are fed and humanely treated. On the other hand, not even the shadiest buyer can be banned from the system before they can be proved to be mishandling their Workers and their rights.

On Connor’s eight day, the atmosphere in the office building is strangely heavy when he arrives. When he asks Clarice about it she initially presses her lips together, then shakes her head. “A girl killed herself in her room last night. They found her this morning.”

Connor feels like his breath is slowly forced out of him, a chilling cold taking its place. “Wh—how?” He had started to ask ‘why’, but realized that it might be a stupid question.

Clarice makes a cynical gesture over her neck that makes Connor blink, because he knows for a fact that the collars have been redesigned quite recently to prevent the Workers from being able to injure themselves, whether intentionally or not. “With the bedsheets,” Clarice elaborates when she notices his confusion.

“Oh,” Connor says, because there’s not much else he _can_ say.

“She had just been assigned a new job,” Clarice continues, oddly expressionless. “We need to look into it. Maybe the Buyer is known… if not by us, maybe among the Workers. But we’ll start with checking the files.”

It is slow work. The Buyer has been in the system for years and enlisted plenty of Workers, the reason listed as “domestic”, a vague term used to describe anything that takes place within the four walls of a Buyer’s home, such as cooking, cleaning, babysitting or personal attendance. An expensive way to obtain a servant, sure, but for some people, Connor has learned, it is still considered something of a status symbol. But going through the hired Worker’ personal files, nothing looks awry.

Finally, Connor sighs and rubs his eyes, trying to will the beginning headache to recede before it fully takes a hold of him. He glances at the clock at the corner of the computer screen. “Lunch?”

Clarice barely glances away from her own screen. “You go ahead. I’ll be there in a while.”

Connor sighs again, this time mentally, because he doesn’t like heading to the cafeteria alone. He’d like to say it is because he feels awkward, not knowing many of his colleagues yet, but to be completely honest, the main reason is that the cafeteria is his only real exposure to the Workers in the facilities.

He knows that it is stupid of him, for many reasons. There is just… something chilling about enjoying his lunch among people that are, for all intents and purposes, _owned_ by the state, while Connor is free. The center In Orem provides a home for any Workers in the area that are between contracts at the moment, as well as for any new people that are being trained. Their schedules are pretty much the same either way, Connor had learned during the introduction on his first day. It’s not just about learning how to behave and serve; it’s about never forgetting it. They had never said the word ‘brainwashing’, of course, but it hadn’t been too difficult to hear the word implied, however clinically.

And Connor can see it in some of the Workers’ eyes, and he hates the idea that people can be fundamentally broken, without legal ramifications.

 When he was little, he never really encountered any Workers’, except for the occasional ones that he met when he followed his parents to places such as the insurance or post offices; typical places where Workers’ would end up working if they weren’t privately hired. And the thought of anyone having a private Worker had been unheard of in his little part of the world. That privilege was limited to the rich and meaningful people, and the idea had been a source of fascination and horror for him and his friends.

But Connor can’t very well avoid the cafeteria because he feels uncomfortable around people that are less fortunate than him, and besides, he is hungry. Sadly, he is a bit late, which means that the cafeteria is almost completely full of people.

He pays for his lunch and glances at the rows of tables, picking one to the side that is almost empty. A young man with a collar and dressed in the standard grey Worker uniform is at the far end of it, resting his chin in his hand and his eyes focused on a book, but other than that, that particular corner of the room seems to be quiet enough.

Connor takes his tray and heads over. He doesn’t really pay any attention to the other man until he is almost at the table and glances at him to see if he will be acknowledged. At the same time, the man looks up from his book and Connor meets the disinterested, almost clouded eyes of someone who has been in the system for quite some time.

And there is something… Connor can’t quite place it. Maybe the slope of his nose, the shape of his mouth. It is a familiarity that makes something in his chest flutter, as though from a good memory, or a hopeful one, but it doesn’t make sense until something in the man’s brown eyes begin to sharpen as though in recognition. For a moment, Connor feels like the floor is beginning to swirl under his feet; he puts his tray down on the table, heavily.

The man’s hair may be cut much shorter than Connor remembers it being, he’s thinner, and he sits hunched over as though he is perpetually trying to make himself less tall. But once Connor’s brain has made the connection, he realizes that the young man at the table can impossibly be anyone other than the former Elder Kevin Price, and Connor really doesn’t know what to make of that realization.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the subject of trigger warnings, this entire story deals with non-consensual acts of various kinds, not all of them sexual. If something sexually explicit will be described, I promise I will warn in that individual chapter, but please just assume that a lot of the contents described here will be disturbing either way. :/

Kevin sometimes sees ghosts from another time, most prominently in his own reflection. It is an eerie, uncomfortable feeling though not impossible to suppress, but when he looks up one day at lunchtime and meets a pair of familiar grey eyes, he feels a sudden, unusual pang in his chest that he can’t describe. It still takes him a moment before he recognizes the owner of the eyes; then, he bites down on a sudden flood of frustration that fills his lungs and throat, throwing him off balance, and he forces his eyes back down at the book he had been reading. He has done quite well for some time now, hasn’t felt the hot pang of shame in _years_. It’s not fair.

This is only his second day back at the center after spending six months at a building site in Logan. It had been an unremarkable contract; Kevin hadn’t been the only Service Worker at the site and it had been obvious that the building company was used to working with people like them, which always makes things easier. Few things are as exhausting as people that are not used to giving orders.

Nevertheless, it is always good to be back in the safe routines at the center. The initial disorientation that Kevin had felt from the change of environment and pace has already been replaced by the familiar dullness of the instructors’ voices droning the words and mantras that he knows by heart. It’s not fun, per se, but it’s—almost—safe.

It doesn’t matter that he has been assigned a different room than last time he had been staying here; they all look pretty much the same. What is worse is the guy that is sleeping in the bunk bed below Kevin’s, a new kid, short and wide-eyed and obviously completely green. If Kevin had been a nicer person he would have tried to offer some advice or words of comfort, but the mere thought of trying to become some sort of mentor is exhausting. Besides, with the kid’s big eyes and soft hands, it is obvious that he will end up in domestic services, either way, and that is simply a chapter on its own that Kevin prefers not to think or talk about--

_Mr. Adams steals Kevin’s first kiss, prefers to be called Sir, and hires him under the guise that he needs someone to look after his two sons who are around every other week. The kids are brats, snottier than Kevin had ever been, and they know exactly what he is allowed and not allowed to do; Kevin learns that he is not above hating children, truly loathing them. He calls the kids ‘mister’, they call him ‘hey’. Mr. Adams calls him ‘boy’._

_The rest of the time Kevin prepares breakfasts, makes coffee, cleans, runs errands around town, self-conscious of the relatively new collar that he is not allowed to hide. Mr. Adams makes it into a bit of a joke to offer constructive criticism, first regarding Kevin’s general performance, then later his physique and face. He asserts his power through attitude rather than power, because Kevin is both taller and probably stronger than him._

_Mr. Adams has thinning hair, cold hands, fashionable dress shoes, and he is the last person that Kevin will have the energy to hate._

Kevin pushes the thought away, staring at the words on the page of his book for a moment longer, unable to derive any meaning from them. He can see McKinley’s hands and tray on the table from the corner of his eyes, and he is not going away, so Kevin pushes his feeling down the best he can and looks back up.

McKinley’s hair is styled differently, and without the white shirt and colorful ties he looks like another person, yet somehow exactly the same as Kevin remembers him. And McKinley is still staring at him, mouth open, then something in his eyes flicker and he snaps it shut and says, of course, “Kevin Price?”

Kevin tries not to wince at that, because those are the first words that became forbidden to him. Only a few very select people sometimes call him Kevin, or at least, _know_ that it used to be his name; people that were new at the same time as him. But to hear his full name like that… it is so utterly familiar in a terrible way that is threatening to choke him. But he shouldn’t protest, not even against someone who is not a Buyer.

“Hi,” he says instead, taking a breath and forcing his hand away from where he is suddenly fingering on the metal of his collar, warmed by the heat of his body, as always. “It’s been a while.”

McKinley blinks at him and appears to be frozen in position, still standing by the table with one hand on each side of the lunch tray. Kevin looks up at him, waiting with forced, polite patience for him to stop struggling with his words.

“How long?” McKinley asks finally, and seems to realize the existence of chairs. He sits down, looking almost clumsy as he fumbles with it.

“Almost six years,” Kevin responds and wonders if he should feel something other than numb fascination regarding that number because McKinley certainly does, eyes widening. “Does it matter?”

That’s a borderline rude question, he realizes the moment he’s said it, and he feels hopelessness prickle inside him even though he knows, logically, that McKinley of all people is not going to comment on it, even though he could. Whether a lecturer, administrator or a janitor, anyone that is employed by the facilities is perfectly within their rights to penalize a Worker, and the keycard that is attached to McKinley’s belt loop is a pretty tell-tale sign that he holds _some_ sort of position here. But Kevin is usually _good_ at doing what people tell him to do and as a rule he doesn’t get penalized unless someone is feeling particularly petty.

“That’s—this is not--” McKinley fumbles with his words again, and his eyes are wide, almost panicked, and Kevin is reminded of the young boy in the bunk beneath his and suddenly he feels anger like a knife in his chest. He doesn’t remember the last time he has been angry and it _hurts_ , forces him to clench his hands into fists under the table, because what right does _McKinley_ have to make an expression like that?

Kevin stands up, surprising himself, then instinctively hesitates, unsteady on his feet. He is supposed to make himself available until a person dismisses him, but McKinley, at least, is not his Buyer, and the bustling cafeteria is suddenly grating on Kevin’s nerves in a way that feels unbearable. The surprising need to make a decision whether to stay or go makes his head throb until he presses his eyes shut for just a second and lets go of it all. He has a lecture to go to; he opens his eyes again.

“Excuse me,” he says quietly to a bewildered-looking McKinley, closes his book and holds it under his arm before picking up his tray and walking away.

~*~

Connor has to force himself not to pursue his old friend, instead following his retreating back with his eyes until Price has disposed of his tray and disappeared around the corner. Guilt punctures the worst of his shock because he is not too far gone to realize that Price had been immensely uncomfortable to see him, but, just, there are no protocols to tell Connor how he is supposed to feel, or do, about something like this. He looks down at his lunch tray without really seeing it, until a group of people sits down at the other end of his table and he looks up to see them giving him curious glances.

He begins to eat, mechanically, mind still whirling. Price had looked, well, _tired_ , mostly, in the marrow-deep way of someone who doesn’t have the energy to properly care anymore, but who can blame him?

He had said that he had been here for six years, which would mean that he was signed over shortly after returning from Uganda, probably. The government only uses its power to sign people over as a punishment for very serious offences, and the thought of Price being accused for intentionally _killing_ another person is absurd. This means that Price had either signed himself over, or possibly, his parents, depending on when his birthdate had been. But surely he had been twenty-one when he had returned from Uganda? But in the end, there is no use in speculation. And even less use in trying to do anything about it, Connor thinks as the hopelessness of the situation beginning to catch up with him. Once you’re in the system, you’re there for the rest of your life.

The thought of returning to work after his lunch break feels so unrealistic that it becomes almost unbearable. After finishing his food, Connor locks himself in one of the bathrooms near the cafeteria and stares at his still panicked eyes in the mirror. He washes his face with cold water to shock himself out of it, then stays in there for another ten minutes simply to try force his mind back into work-mode.

When he gets back to the office building, Clarice is still sitting in front of her computer screen, tapping away on the keyboard. She looks up when he closes the door behind him, then does a double take. “Hey. Are you… okay?”

Connor clears his throat and heads over to his desk, closest to the door. “Sure. Did you eat?”

Clarice looks at him for a moment longer, as though she is wondering whether she believes him or not, then points at the remains of a wrapped cafeteria sandwich on her desk. “I ended up eating here today.”

“Oh.” Now he feels sheepish for leaving her alone to work when there is something important they need to look into. “What can I do to help?”

“If you can start at,” She glances back at her computer screen. “Worker numbers from F00 and down, that’d be great.”

“Sure.” He enters his security information into the computer and opens up the file library, then, when he hears Clarice resume her writing, feels the motivation seep out of him. He stares at the computer screen with its alphabetically organized folders, and he realizes that there is only one thing he really wants to do at the moment.

But the Service Workers’ files are not searchable by their former names—no, their _names_ , Connor corrects himself—only by their service number, gender, birth year and arrival date. Trying to use a service number would be hopeless; getting a glimpse of the number etched into Price’s collar had been the last thing on Connor’s mind an hour ago. It really only leaves birth year and arrival date as the viable options, and after some consideration he decides to go with birth year and picks the years that he approximates would be suitable. It still leaves him a sizable list of files, named only after the service number.

It takes him the entire afternoon, and then some. He has to open each file and search for the Workers’ real names. The repetitive motions make his neck and elbow ache and his eyes feel dry from staring at the screen for so long.

At twenty minutes past five, Clarice looks up with a sudden jerk of her head. “Crap! My yoga.”

Connor looks up and watches her gather her things in a rush. Once she has struggled into her jacket, she pauses for a moment and looks at him. “Will you be staying much longer?”

Connor minimizes the window, even though he knows that it is unlikely that she will be able to see that he is working on something other than she had asked him. “Just a while longer,” he says.

Her eyes soften as she smiles at him, even taking a moment to pat him on his shoulder on the way out. “You’re doing good. Thank you for today.”

“See you tomorrow,” Connor mumbles, guilt causing his cheeks to burn, and makes up his mind to stay late tonight to catch up on the work he had neglected. Then Clarice closes the door behind her, and Connor is left alone in the room. He sighs and opens the window again to continue where he had left off.

The second file he opens after the interruption is labelled “M9208.37” and it takes a moment for the PDF to load; then, he finds himself staring at the name that is printed in the upper right corner, K. Price. And it’s such a strange thing, because Connor knows the structure of those files by now, has gone through hundreds of them already, but he still feels something he can only describe as relief at the realization that the name actually still exists somewhere in a document, tying it to the number. Somewhere in a legal document, there is still proof that a person named Kevin Price exists.

The first page is a standard summary of his personal information, including, again, his full name, birth date, birth place and pretty much the same information that could be found in any common passport. The second page is equally similar and contains the standard information that is used to match a Worker to a specific Buyer request.

_M, 1992. Good health. Good behavior. Std. Education +, w. H. Suitable for: physical, administrative, domestic services. No infractions._

That’s it. Connor reads it through again, and again, and he _has_ looked at hundreds of these files by now but that can’t compare to the feeling of seeing it related to someone he knows, or used to know. He is pending between anger and melancholia, and the mixture keeps him from thinking of anything to do.  

He is just starting to automatically scroll down to the next page, page three of quite many that will detail eventual hospital records, test results, temperament analysis, documented skills, the previous Buyers, and the types of services that Price has provided so far, when Connor realizes what it is that he is really doing.

Though the information is classified, Connor is legally permitted to look at any of these files. But, if Price hadn’t been here. If Connor hadn’t been sitting by this particular computer. If this had been an entirely different situation, where both of them had been friends, and both of them had been _free_ , and Connor had somehow been handed a file containing Price’s personal medical records – he wouldn’t have read it.

And he feels nauseous all of a sudden, maybe from the amount of scrolling up and down that he has been doing today while staring at the screen.

He may have the legal rights, but what about moral?

He closes the file, leans back in the chair and rubs his eyes. When he opens his eyes again he stares at the computer screen for a moment, remembering his promise to himself to catch up on his real work.

He stretches is arms over his head, straightening his back until he can’t bite back a tired groan, wishing, for the first time in his life, that he was a coffee drinker.

~*~

When Kevin goes to bed that night he is firmly back in the familiar routines at the center, and the mind-numbing boredom is almost a relief because it allows him to let go and just drift along with the stream while he tries to get some rest after his previous job. Only two things pierce through the fog he is trying to achieve in his mind.

The fact that McKinley is now working at the center is… disappointing, somehow, but also frustrating in a way that Kevin’s can’t quite describe. It creates a steady ache in his chest, almost brings back the panicked claustrophobia he used to feel years ago when the sensation of the collar around his neck had been new and strange, and the knowledge that he couldn’t take it off had driven him up the walls. In the darkness, curled up under the covers, he presses his fingers between the metal and the skin of his throat, just to prove to himself that it is possible. It is not _that_ tight.

Furthermore, Kevin hasn’t received any information regarding his next assignment, he doesn’t even know for sure if he has been given one yet. But the lectures that he has been directed to today keep him on the edge because they are dealing with humility and servitude. And maybe he is reading too much into it; maybe he is just due for a repetition even though he knows all the mantras by heart, but those are pretty typical to attend in preparation for domestic service and Kevin hasn’t done that in over a year and a half —

_Mrs. Miller takes great care to very gently bathe him, uses soft towels directly from the drier to dry his hair for him. Every single nail on his fingers and toes are carefully cut and filed, like some sort of intimate ritual between the two of them; he feels like a child. She feeds him pieces of chocolate from her own fingers until the roof of his mouth is covered in thick, sugary sweetness that he can’t force himself to swallow anymore, his stomach heavy with the threat of nausea. She insinuates that he can lick her fingers clean if he wants to, and Kevin is there to keep her happy so he does. She is delighted._

_She is past forty years of age, but her fascination with his lack of boundaries is childishly cruel. She pinches, pokes and pushes, waiting for Kevin to finally say no._

_No is a forbidden word. It is a word that he is unlearning, because it doesn’t apply to him._

_Finally, she grows bored of him and sends him back to the center, almost an entire month before their contract is up._

But there is no use dwelling over it. Kevin will probably have at least a week before he will be relocated anywhere else, if not more, and like an eternal mocking repetition of his missionary work, he will have no say in where he gets sent either way.

Kevin turns in his bed, listens to the sound of the even breaths from the boy sleeping on the bed beneath him, and allows himself to drift off as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to all of you who have read so far. Thoughts and comments are very appreciated, either here or at my tumblr @ notlikelionking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone that have read and commented so far. Hearing your thoughts gives me life! :D

The next day, Connor is tired and trying very hard not to be grumpy.

He had stayed at work until a little past nine o’clock before he had finally succumbed to hunger and headed home to his apartment to make himself a late dinner, but even then it had been difficult to force his mind away from the events at work. He had found nothing special about girl that had committed suicide, nor had he managed to find anything of interests regarding the Buyer.

Furthermore, when Connor finally brushed his teeth and went to bed, he couldn’t repress his thoughts of Price any longer. He didn’t want them, had tried to distract himself from them in any way he could come up with, but they had continued to tease the edge of his consciousness until he had found that he simply had to deal with them. And really, he of all people should have known that running from one’s problems never made anything better. Still. Some things are more unbearable than others, he thinks, sharp guilt piercing his chest because _really_? Who is _he_ to feel plagued by Price’s circumstances?

Sleep had waited a long time before claiming him.

The next day he had swallowed two painkillers for his headache and had still arrived at work later than usual. Clarice had been there when he arrived, and they had immediately discussed their findings, or rather, lack of them.

“Well, case closed then,” Clarice says finally, pushing her glasses up with her middle finger and leaning back in her chair, glancing at her computer screen. “If there’s nothing, there’s nothing.” Connor is about to open his mouth to, well, he’s not sure exactly, but then Clarice looks back at him again and her eyes are harsh. “Just another suicide at the center.”

Startled, Connor leans away from her displeasure; even as he feels something heavy begin to grow in his stomach at her words. “Is it common, then?”

She looks at him, then sighs, the sudden spark of frustration leaving her as her shoulders seem to slump. “I’m already forgetting that you’re new. And maybe not _common_. But…it happens. And the statistics are kept under wraps, pretty much, to keep from being used in the political debate.”

The political discussions regarding the system are slow-going, with small bursts of activity from anti-organizations that the newspapers are calling extremists. Connor shakes his head. “But that’s _terrible_.”

Clarice shrugs. “I’m not so naïve that I think all Buyers are decent people that simply want someone to clean and cook their meals for them. You can hire a cleaning service and a cook for that. But unless the Workers come back in extremely bad shape, we can’t report it or investigate further.”

“Why?”

“Because we teach the Workers not to use the word ‘no’,” Clarice says, voice sharp; Connor feels his something in his stomach turn uncomfortably at being forcibly included in the ‘we’. “Can you imagine how blurred the line between what’s okay and not would become, if you’re not actually allowed to protest against any treatment? They’re literally _trained_ to accept anything.”

“I’m not sure I can,” Connor replies honestly, mouth dry. “Imagine it, I mean.”

Clarice nods. “It’s a corrupt system,” she says, simply.

So what is the point of _their_ work? Connor wants to ask, but he is not sure he can handle more hopelessness in their situation right now. They’re supposed to do Buyer inspections after one and three months into the contracts to make sure that the Workers are given the food they are contractually bound to be given, as well as make sure that there are no other issues that need to be considered. But if there is no real point even in that… Connor pushes the thought away, just for now. It has to be better than nothing. And they do weed out Buyer applications daily; people that have criminal records, for instance.

It _has_ to be better than doing nothing.

“I… know a guy,” Connor says after a moment, and he hasn’t even made a conscious decision to talk about this yet; it slips out before he can stop himself. Maybe he is desperate to unburden himself with this; maybe he somehow wants to do anything to help. “Or at least, I used to know him. He’s here now.”

“He works here?” Clarice frowns, as though she doesn’t quite understand this sudden change in topic.

“No. I mean.” Connor bites his lip, regrets that he had brought it up at all. But Clarice’s eyes widen as she gets it without any further clarification.

“Oh,” she says, her voice milder than he has ever heard it before. “I’m sorry.” And Connor is sure that she means well, but her expression of hopeless sympathy feels terrible.

“Thanks.” He looks away, and his initial thought seems silly, now. It is something that had surfaced in his mind sometime during the night, but he had pushed it away. He’s not sure if he really _wants_ to meet Price again. Still, faced with the silence that follows his confession, he hears himself continue. “I was thinking… maybe, I could ask him. About all this, I mean. If he knows anything.”

He had hoped that Clarice would brighten at the suggestion, but instead her sympathetic expression lingers. “You can try, but I don’t think anything is going to come from that. I’m sorry.” She seems to hesitate, as if there is something more she wants to say, then shakes her head slightly, mostly to herself it seems. “Were you good friends?”

Had they been? After seven years, it is strangely difficult to remember it objectively. Connor is not afraid to admit that he used to have a crush on Price, who had somehow embodied everything that Connor had found desirable at the time; the looks, the confidence, the enthusiasm, the charisma. He had been someone that was easy to gravitate towards. Later on, maybe he had started to see that a lot of Price’s enthusiasm had been naïve, almost childlike in how earnest it was, and that a lot of his inspiration came from pretty simple ideals, but even that had been oddly charming.

Of course, Price had mostly been preoccupied with Cunningham, with whom he had formed a non-conventional dream team. But even so… Connor remembers evenings in the living room, just the two of them, simply talking. And bumping elbows teasingly while doing the dishes in the morning. And, it is just so difficult to reconcile that image of Kevin Price with the tired, strangely hollow man that Connor had run into in the cafeteria the other day.

“I don’t know,” he says, finally. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “I think so.”

**~*~**

Kevin recognizes several people in the common room, but he only nods to the groups of people while he grabs a newspaper from the table and walks over to the couches that line the walls in a half-circle. Maybe it is a masochistic fascination to keep track of the world, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is still out in it most of the time, even if he has no right or obligation to participate in it. But sometimes even that is a relief; he can read about the world almost like he reads fiction and there is no reason for him to get more involved with it than he gets when he reads about, say, Panem or Trafalmadore.

He shakes his head at the offer to join the nearby card game and settles down, but he only has time to unfold the newspaper before someone appears in the doorway, calls for attention, and rattles of a string of numbers that corresponds to Kevin’s service number.

The Workers in the room look around, a few of the old-timers recognize the number and give Kevin meaningful looks; either it’s a new job already, or he’s in trouble. The guy next to him pats him on the back—Kevin twitches away, annoyed that someone who is not his superior is touching him--and takes the newspaper from him before Kevin stands up and heads to the door to follow the instructor down the hall.

As he walks, he strains his mind trying to remember if he’s done anything that could be viewed as an infraction, but nothing comes to mind. Must be a new job then, he thinks, and there is that familiar twinge in his stomach as he wonders where he will get sent this time.

~*~

Price’s eyes had widened slightly when he had stepped into the room where Connor was waiting, but had otherwise not shown any particular reaction to meeting him for a second time in two days. He simply closes the door behind him and remains standing at the edge of the room, meeting Connor’s eyes for a short moment before looking at some undefined spot on the floor.

The display of mild disinterest is flustering, until Connor realizes that Price is simply waiting for Connor to explain what is going on without wanting to appear nosy. Connor clears his throat, strangely unnerved. “Hi,” he says. “Uh, sorry to take you away from your break.”

“It’s fine,” Price replies smoothly.

Connor waits for something, he doesn’t know what, but Price doesn’t say anything else. “Great. How are you?”

At this, Price looks up. “Fine, thank you.” It’s an automatic reply if Connor has ever heard one, but then, he has to admit that maybe it had been a pretty stupid question.

He shifts in his chair to cross his legs, more a nervous habit than anything. “I tried to contact you several times after Uganda. I didn’t know--” He stops himself, horribly aware of that no matter what he says, it could probably be interpreted as offensive, or even mean. “I missed you,” he says instead, feeling his cheeks begin to heat up at the confession, as though it is more intimate than it really is. It’s not like he is actually confessing his crush, even though he wonders how this strange new Price would react to such news. Maybe he would actually _get_ a reaction of some kind. “I’m sorry that we have to meet again like this.”

He’s surprised to see the corners of Price’s mouth lift in a slight smile, but he can’t tell if it is genuine or not, or even if the smile is meant to be amused, reassuring or downright bitter. His movements and mannerisms are vastly different from what Connor remembers, to the point that he feels like an entirely different person. “Yeah. Me too.” Then he continues, with what Connor thinks is a pretty well-hidden edge in his voice. “But that’s not why you wanted to talk to me, right?”

Connor feels his blush deepen. “Well, that too, but--” He stops himself, all too aware of the fact that Price is still standing by the door as though he is expecting to be dismissed soon. “You can sit if you want to.”

Movements oddly tense, Price obediently folds himself into a chair. Pushing away the sudden, sickening thought that Price had possibly been waiting for his permission to sit down, Connor launches himself into his story. Price listens without interrupting, but when Connor is finished, he is hunched over in the chair, shoulders slumped. He looks even more tired that he had a moment ago, for some reason.

“Oh,” he says, and Connor can’t help but feel startled by the sudden note of openness in his voice that makes him sound younger. “I thought you--” He trails off, and when he continues, the impersonal tone in his voice is back. “What was her number?”

It takes a moment for Connor to understand that he means the service number of the dead girl, then he lists the number, stuttering at having to speak the impractical sequence out loud. “This was her second year here,” he adds.

“Yeah, I don’t know who that is.” Price looks at him for a moment, eyebrows furrowed. “What is it you want me to do?”

Connor breaks the eye-contact as he realizes how silly he has been about all of this. “Just… have you heard anything? About this, I mean.”

Price looks even more confused, but somehow, that is good. It’s better than seeing that strange cloudiness in his eyes. “I got back from a job only a couple of days ago. And--” he pauses as something flickers in his eyes, just a slight shift in his expression that Connor can’t interpret. He has one hand raised, running his fingertips over his collar, seemingly without realizing that he is doing it. “If she wanted to kill herself, that’s her business, right?”

Connor can’t help it, he gapes at him. Price, seeming to immediately regret his words, lets his shoulders drop even further.

“But that’s horrible,” Connor protests, but it sounds pretty pathetic even to his own ears.

“Sorry,” Price replies quietly, glancing away. Then, “I don’t know that Buyer. And we’re not allowed to talk about them, either way.”

“Even if you knew someone might get hurt?”

There is the flicker again, but once it disappears, Price’s face looks carefully blank, as though he has intentionally, or unintentionally, smoothened out any expression he might have instinctively wanted to make. It doesn’t look entirely natural. He opens his mouth, then closes it again and shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know anything,” he repeats, sounding almost helpless. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Connor says, even as he feels his heart sink in his chest. He remembers what Clarice had told him this morning, about the Workers learning to never be allowed to protest against any order or treatment, and tries to merge this knowledge with Price and the careful way that Price chooses his words and facial expressions. The thought makes him hide a wince. “I’m sorry, too.”

“You don’t have to be,” Price says, and again it sounds automatic, and for some reason Connor feels almost embarrassed in a way he can’t explain. He glances around in the room that the instructor had showed him. This is the first time he has been in this building since his first day at work, when he was given the standard tour, and it is difficult to build an opinion about it because it’s very anonymous, almost like a hospital building but without the attempts to make it in any way welcoming or personable. When he looks back at Price again, he realizes that he is watching him, as though waiting for something, and it is unnerving.

“So, when is your next job?” Connor asks, mostly to break the silence.

Price shrugs. “You probably know that better than me.”

Connor frowns. “What do you mean?”

Price lets his hand fall from his collar, wrapping both arms around himself. “You said you worked with administration, right? You’ll probably get the paperwork before I’m told anything about it.”

“Oh.” Connor tries not to feel embarrassed t that; because he should probably have realized that. On the other hand, there are at least five people at the office that are working with this type of paperwork, so logically the chance that he gets Price’s documents to process is only at twenty percent. “I guess I could look it up for you, if you want.”

“No, that’s fine.” But Price is starting to tense up again, hugging himself closer, and Connor doesn’t understand why.

“I haven’t looked at your files in the database,” he says quickly. “I mean,” he continues lamely when Price blinks at him. “I thought you might not like it if I did.”

“You can do what you want,” Price replies plainly, as though he really means it, and for a terrible moment, Connor thinks that he might actually do. Then, he realizes that Price is simply telling the truth. He’s detaching his own feelings from it by just saying it as it is, and that simple realization pushes at something inside Connor’s chest that will eventually ripple through his entire body because yes, that _is_ the truth. No matter what he says or does, _he_ will always have the power to do pretty much anything he wants, of course within reason, while Price won’t. Connor doesn’t know how many times he is going to need that reminder because it ought to be as obvious to him as it is to Price.  

And, well. Price is still handsome. He’s thinner than he should be and he looks constantly tired, more because of the expression on his face than any obvious signs of sleep deprivation, but there is no denying that he has good bone structure; high cheekbones, well-shaped mouth and beautiful eyes. He probably doesn’t care about it, at least not anymore; the way he is constantly somewhat hunched over it almost looks like he is trying to make himself less noticeable (which is a difficult feat for a man of his height), and it gives Connor a bad feeling in his stomach. And just. It’s not fair. Nothing is, certainly not life.

“Cunningham is still in Uganda,” he blurts. “I, uh. Haven’t talked to him in a while but. Things seem good.”

Price looks at him, all wide-eyed surprise for a second before his eyes soften in what is the most genuine expression that Connor has seen on his face so far. “I see. That’s good.”

“I thought you might want to know,” Connor says, slower, now that Price is not displaying the same neutral disinterest as he has for most of their conversation thus far. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“How long have you worked here?” Politely, but with a bit on an edge, almost impossible to discern.

“Just two weeks,” Connor says, feeling as though it might be obvious. But Price simply nods, accepting the information, and shows nothing of what he thinks of it. After a moment, it becomes obvious that Price has nothing else he wants to ask, so Connor slowly uncrosses his legs and prepares to stand up. “Well. I guess that’s it. Thank you.”

Price nods and remains seated.

Flustered, Connor makes a motion with his hand. “You can go.”

“Thank you.” Price stands up, slowly. He holds the door open for Connor to talk through in a way that years ago would have delighted him because it’s such a sweet, gentlemanly thing to do. Now it merely fills him with a discomfort that makes him quicken his steps.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Avoid the part in italics at the end if you want to avoid a brief depiction of non-consensual sex and sexual humiliation.

Connor can hear Poptarts breathe on the other end of the line, the sound sharp against his ear, but it takes almost a full twenty seconds before he replies. “I’d ask if you’re sure, but I’m guessing that you are.”

“I’ve talked to him,” Connor says, and he’s not sure exactly what he wants Poptarts to say about the situation. But Connor can’t keep something like this a secret, of course, even though it feels exhausting to put all of it into words, to have to try and explain exactly how unnerving all of it is. “It’s… he’s different.”

“Of course he is,” Poptarts says rationally, but Connor knows his friend well enough to know that he is more upset than it sounds over the phone. “Six _years_? His parents must have signed him over the moment he got home.”

Connor can’t speculate about it anymore; it’s sickening and he’s not sure he wants to know. Besides, the information should be in Price’s file, the one that Connor had made a conscious decision not to read unless Price gives him explicit permission. Which will probably not happen, ever. Or rather, if Connor is starting to understand how this new Price is functioning; he will never give the type of permission that will actually convince Connor that Price feels like he has a choice.

“I just don’t know what to _do_ ,” he says, and hears how pitiful he sounds.

Yesterday he had looked up Cunningham’s Uganda blog for the first time in a while and through the ‘information’ page he had found an email address. Connor has no idea if the address is still active, but he had still composed a halting, awkward mail to try and explain the situation. In hindsight, he wonders if it had really been the right thing to do. Cunningham seems happy with his life in Uganda; perhaps bringing up something from his past like this is unfair. But Cunningham has yet to reply, so Connor will just have to wait and see.

“I don’t think there is anything you can do,” Poptarts says, and his rationality would have driven Connor up the walls if it hadn’t been for the honest note of regret in his voice. “Not unless you’re planning on overthrowing the system single-handedly, or can somehow cough up enough money to, well, hire him.”

And Poptarts says it like it is insane, but Connor holds his breath for just a moment because it would be a lie to say he hasn’t considered the possibility of buying a contract. He hesitates a second. “I—do you think that might be…possible?”

There is a pause on the other end. “I’m going to assume that you don’t mean the overthrowing the system.” Connor waits. “I can’t say what you think you might be able to afford, Con.” Poptarts’ words are gentle, not as enthusiastic as Connor might have hoped. “But… do you think it would really solve anything? Unless you’re sure that you will want to, and be able to renew the contract over and over again, it would just be cruel.”

Connor bites his lip, glancing over at the oven to make sure his dinner is not turning into charcoal. “I know. It’s just a thought.”

Poptarts sighs into the phone. “I know. I’m sorry. I know you were… close to him.”

He feels his cheeks heat up, even now, at the age-old joke about the crush he used to have. Especially when it is mentioned in this context, because it brings up the uncomfortable question of Connor’s own intentions and feelings, which he isn’t sure he knows the answer to. “Well, my dinner will burn soon,” he says. “See you on Saturday?”

“See you,” Poptarts says, and hangs up.

~*~

He knows that it is insane, but once Poptarts had mentioned the possibility as well, Connor can’t get the thought of maybe, possibly buying Price’s contract out of his head. It is a strange idea in many ways; for one, Connor isn’t exactly the standard Buyer when it comes to domestic services, or any type of service, really. Secondarily, Connor’s new, tiny two-room apartment will not exactly provide either him or Price much of a chance for privacy, and Connor may not have much of a social life as of this moment, after his recent relocation to Orem, but he would like to have _someday_.

And finally the biggest hurdle, Price’s age, looks and health puts him in the highest possible price range, and after getting by mainly on study loans and grants, Connor doesn’t exactly have a huge amount of savings to spend.

That doesn’t stop him from researching it thoroughly. He spends almost an entire week going through his finances and trying to figure out the minimum amount two people would need would need to spend on food and clothes each month. And here is where Connor finally has to admit defeat, because it is simply not possible, no matter how much he tries to rationalize it.

Even Clarice notices his moodiness and he finds himself confessing his idea to her, but she merely shakes her head at him, pats his shoulder, and says that it is probably for the best.

**~*~**

“You should put some pictures on the walls,” Poptarts says as he glances around Connor’s new apartment in Orem. “It looks pretty bleak.”

And Connor feels embarrassment tug at him, just a little, because of the unopened boxes that are still stacked against the walls. It is certainly not like him to live this plainly. “I’ve just… been busy.”

Poptarts gives him an unimpressed look, but it transforms into a friendly smile. “I know what it’s like. Tell me if you ever need any help. At least now we live closer to each other.”

“Sure,” Connor says vaguely. It is easier to look at his apartment with fresh eyes when he has a guest, and he has to admit to himself that it is a bit pathetic that he hasn’t gotten further in the unpacking process than this. Besides, he usually _likes_ to decorate and make sure that his living quarters match his personality. He really should get to it as soon as possible; it might help to make him feel better.

Still, he shows Poptarts around in the small apartment, and it is only when they sit down for tea that he allows himself to speak his mind. “You were right, by the way. There is no way that I can afford a contract this soon.”

Poptarts looks at him for a couple of seconds, but doesn’t seem phased by the sudden change of tone and topic. And surprisingly, he sighs, leaning back in his chair. “I know. But I’ve been thinking. Or, well. I talked to my family.” He even looks a little embarrassed, for some reason. “We kind of owe Price a lot, you know? Not my family of course, I mean us. You and I. And the rest of District Nine. We would have been sent home in shame, if it hadn’t been for him.” He scratches at the back of his head, and it is such an uncharacteristic thing for Poptarts to do that Connor can’t help but stare at him. “What I’m saying is… my family is prepared to chip in with some money. If you’re still considering this, I mean.”

It takes Connor a moment to process, then, embarrassingly, he feels his eyes begin to burn. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Poptarts shifts in his seat, ears a little red. “We want to. And I mean, you’re still the one that will have to… take responsibility, and all that. You know people are going to think you’re paying him to be your… your _boytoy_ , right?”

Connor winces at the word, because he _hadn’t_ considered that. But then, people can talk about whatever they like, he supposes. He has no family that he needs to make proud or protect from rumors anymore, and he certainly hopes that Poptarts will make sure that _his_ family doesn’t think anything like that. “ _Jesus_ , Thomas.”

“I’m just saying it as it is,” Poptarts replies teasingly, but there is an undertone of seriousness in his voice that Connor doesn’t know how to deal with, so he pretends not to have heard it.

**~*~**

Kevin doesn’t know how to deal with McKinley anymore, and the whole thing has exhausted him since the beginning. He had thought that after their last conversation things would be settled between them; McKinley would learn how things are usually dealt with and lose whatever edge of strange second-hand guilt that he seems to be harboring, only a week later, Kevin looks up from his lunch as someone slides into the seat opposite of him. It’s McKinley, of course, eyes wide and mouth held in a thoughtful pout.

Kevin’s knees are aching from having spent the morning on the floor as the instructor had towered over them all and repeated the same lecture about submission that Kevin has heard hundreds of times already. And Kevin can mold his mind into anything at will, really, can settle into any type of subservient behavior needed, if only McKinley doesn’t insist on providing a constant, prickling reminder that Kevin had once used to be something else.

“Hi,” McKinley says quickly, and continues before Kevin even has time to open his mouth to reply. “Listen, I’ve been thinking, and I need to ask you something.” He glances around, as though he is doing something forbidden, but there are no rules about employees and Workers talking, and his obvious nervousness is putting Kevin’s own nerves on edge. Once he seems to reassure himself that no one is listening, he glances at Kevin for just a moment before staring at his hands, folded on the table. “You don’t have to agree if you don’t want to, but, a one year contract isn’t impossible, even for me, so.”

Now he glances up at Kevin, waiting for a response without even finishing the question, and Kevin can sort of feel himself being plunged into cold, dark water that forces out the final traces of disorientation that he normally feels after a four-hour lecture. He swallows the sudden feeling of distaste, wishes that McKinley would stop making things so _complicated_. “I’ll work for whoever signs the contract first.”

McKinley shifts in the uncomfortable plastic chair, pushing the lunch tray away completely. “That’s the thing,” he says quickly. “I checked your potential contracts and you have two Buyers pending, for domestic services. Three, if you’d count me, but I haven’t—I wanted to talk to you first.”

Kevin feels something sharp prickle inside his chest, even though he had already been relatively certain that his next contract would be domestic service. They don’t normally send a person to physical service twice in a row unless that is the only thing a Worker is deemed to be fit for, and this might be one of the last times that Kevin will be young enough for the Buyers to consider him desirable—

_No one has touched him in that way before and Kevin twitches nervously at every faint touch of cold fingers over his stomach and hip bone, and Mr. Adams gaze is almost reverent despite his harsh words. In a detached sense, Kevin has always known that people consider him good-looking but he has never considered himself in this way before. And to be completely honest, Kevin can see nothing sexual or beautiful about his genitals, it only something that is so inherently private, so having to watch Mr. Adam’s hand wrap around his penis merely feels obscene and invasive in a way that he has never experienced before._

_But Mr. Adams strokes him, faster and faster, until both of them are breathing heavily; then, without warning he lets go and gives him an open-handed, sharp slap across his penis and balls. Kevin yelps and automatically curls up to protect himself from further onslaught; unnecessarily, it seems._

_“Don’t enjoy yourself too much,” Mr. Adams says, but he sounds pleased. And before Kevin’s head has had the time to stop ringing from the sharp signals of pain and sickening embarrassment that are still reaching him, Mr. Adams is pushing him down, curling his fingers in Kevin’s hair to guide his head—_

Kevin shakes his head, lifting a hand to make sure that his hair isn’t ruffled. He feels cold all of a sudden. McKinley is still looking at him, wide-eyed and concerned, and Kevin suddenly wonders if McKinley finds him desirable, too.

It feels like a lifetime ago, but Kevin does remember the looks McKinley used to give him back then; longing, uncertain, hoping. The thought of being owned by someone like him is exhausting in a way Kevin can’t even begin to describe, but at least McKinley’s eyes are never anything but sincere and Kevin can’t imagine someone like him intentionally inflicting pain on another human being. Maybe that is all that Kevin can and as the energy to hope for.

His head is hurting again from the pressure of having to make a choice; he hates having to _think_ about this, he shouldn’t have to, hasn’t had to for _years_. He rubs his fingers against his temples, wants McKinley to leave him alone, but he obviously won’t do that without an answer.

“Yes,” Kevin says finally, and he’s surprised by how small his voice sounds. And McKinley seems to relax; resting more of is weight against the table.

“I can only pay for a one-year contract at first,” he says. “But if we’re careful with our money, it shouldn’t be impossible to renew it.” The thought feels strange to Kevin, he has never been in service of anyone that isn’t more than well off. “I know you’re not allowed to take jobs outside of home, strictly speaking, but I know someone that isn’t going to make a fuss.” McKinley pauses. “If you want to, of course. But it’d be helpful.”

He looks at Kevin again, imploring, until Kevin awkwardly shrugs. “If you think it is necessary.”

It is apparently not the answer that McKinley is looking for, because his shoulders slump somewhat. But he doesn’t say anything about it, merely nods. “We’ll see how it works out, right?”

And he looks at Kevin, obviously expecting a response, so Kevin nods too. “Right.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your thoughts and comments so far! I appreciate it so much. :)

McKinley’s apartment seems awfully normal, despite the lack of curtains and decorations and the mess of unpacked boxes lining the walls. When Kevin thinks about it he is forced to admit that it must be the most normal place that he will have lived in since before Uganda, but he prefers not to consider that so he pushes the thought away.

He steps inside the door first because McKinley motions for him to do so, feeling dread rise in his stomach despite his best efforts. Another new place, another new Buyer, except this time with the added humiliation of having to service someone that he used to know. And Kevin has spent the last couple of days trying to prepare himself, trying to decide how to handle this strange new situation, but in the end the center takes care of that for him. He only has to let go of the forces that keep pulling at his mind in different directions and instead float along with the more intensive preparative lectures until his mind feels like it has been poked and prodded at to gain the right shape.

And yet, meeting McKinley at the entrance had pushed him off-balance again, and Kevin doesn’t know what strand of thought that he ought to hold on to anymore. McKinley had been silent during the car trip to his apartment, but Kevin had noticed the glances he kept throwing in his direction.

He steps aside right inside the door with his duffel bag still hanging from his shoulder. McKinley follows him, closing and locking the door before turning to Kevin.

“So this is it,” he says, letting his own bag fall to the floor. He looks a little flustered, and Kevin, trying to center his thoughts around his new Buyer the way he ought to, feels the nervousness spread to him as well. “I know it’s a mess, and pretty small, but I only just moved in. Um, you can leave your bag anywhere. Just please take your shoes off at the door.”

“Yes sir,” Kevin says smoothly, setting the bag carefully on the floor by the bathroom door as he bends down to unlace his shoes. He looks up, surprised, when McKinley makes a strange sort of sound.

“Don’t--” McKinley grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Please just call me by my name. McKinley if you want, but Connor is fine, really.”

“Yes. Connor then.” Kevin looks up at them to show that he has understood the request, considers staying there on the floor until McKinley, or Connor, tells him otherwise, feels almost safer in this position than he does towering over the other man, makes their positions less confusing than they are (which is already a lot). Even if he tries to hunch over he is taller than Connor, and until Connor makes his intentions clear, Kevin would feel better if he performed everything according to textbook procedures. But Connor is looking at him strangely, so he forces himself into a standing position despite himself.

“Great,” Connor says, and Kevin can tell that the cheer in his voice is not entirely genuine. “What can I call you then?”

He pauses, and Kevin wonders if it had been a genuine or rhetorically question. He has been called ‘boy’ and ‘slave’ and ‘baby’, different variations of his service number and when he has worked for larger corporations they are usually assigned standard names like ‘James’ or ‘John’. But before Kevin has decided if he ought to answer or not, Connor throws out a suggestion. “What do you prefer? Price, or can I say Kevin?”

Something throbs inside his chest at hearing _those_ names again, but if those are what he can pick from… “Kevin then. Thank you.”

The government had made the name Kevin forbidden for him, but before that, his parents had made it clear that he wasn’t allowed to be part of the Prices anymore, and that feels more important to remember. Or not remember at all, to be honest.

“You’re welcome,” Connor says, looking hesitant. “Let me show you around, then.”

Like Connor had warned, the apartment is rather small; only one bedroom, plus an open kitchen area overlooking the living room. Kevin follows Connor around as he talks about the visions he has for the place, pausing every now and then and looking at Kevin as if he is expecting approval or Kevin’s own suggestions.

And at least Kevin is used to reaffirming his Buyers’ opinions and ideas, but Connor doesn’t perk up much when he does, as though he can tell that Kevin’s ‘that’s a great idea’s and ‘that sound good’s comes from habit rather than truth. It’s a bit miffing, but then, perhaps no one had really cared before this. Besides, Kevin knows very little about interior design and being asked for his own opinions leaves him awkwardly trying to figure out what he thinks Connor might want him to say, which he probably fails at, either way).

There are more interesting things that Kevin has noticed in the apartment, either way. There is no place for him to kneel at the kitchen table without being squeezed between either the couch or the bookcase. And it tugs at him, in a strange, disorienting way, because Kevin logically _knows_ that McKinley… Connor probably won’t want him to kneel at any time, but somehow there is still something inside of him that can’t let go of the… expectation, perhaps? Instinct? Like some part of his being needs it, just to follow through the motions that have been slowly and patiently ingrained in him. He shakes his head discreetly to clear it.

“I’m sorry I don’t have an extra bed. But the couch is pretty good for sleeping on, actually. I mean, I’m not as tall as you, but,” Connor smiles a bit and lightly pokes Kevin with his elbow.  

“It’s fine,” he says honestly, because it really is. He’d sleep on the floor if that had been what his Buyer suggested, but he is glad he won’t have to.

“We’ll have to find a way to partition it off, too, give you _some_ privacy at least. I’m sorry, I haven’t had the time to think of anything yet but”—

_The boys are with their mother this week and Kevin doesn’t truly have anything he is supposed to do except wait for Mr. Adams to return from work, which only makes his stomach ache from something that might be equal parts nervousness and dread. He is not actually allowed to do much in the house without a directly expressed permission. He’d try to sleep to get through the long hours but that’ll only keep him up at night when he is caught under Mr. Adams arm in the master bedroom._

_So instead, Kevin creeps into the boys’ media room and turns on the TV and DVD player (which he is not allowed to use) and curls up on the couch (which he hasn’t been given permission to sit on) and watches old Disney movies for several hours. It’s not as much of a comfort as he had wished, but at least they somehow feel like they represent something that is still so inherently his, at least, until he remembers how far he is from ever being Hercules or Aladdin anymore, at which point he turns the TV off and pads out in the hallway to wait for Mr. Adams to arrive—_

Kevin shakes his head again and forces his fingers away from his collar; he’d been tugging, perhaps, because his fingers feel strained, stiff. He flexes them experimentally. “That’s alright,” he says to Connor’s comment about privacy, or lack thereof.

Connor is looking at him and there is something strange in his eyes, not at all forced cheer like before, and Kevin tries quench his discomfort from the scrutiny, waiting for Connor to continue his tour of the apartment.

He does, after a moment, and Kevin allows his mind to take it easy and just follow along for a while.

~*~

At least cooking together is familiar, Connor thinks. His kitchen is smaller than the one they had used in Uganda, but running water and modern appliances more than make up for the lack of space; they might bump elbows a bit but that’s fine.

Since it is Connor’s home it doesn’t even feel very strange to suggest things for Kevin to do, even though Kevin might take them as orders, but that strangely seems to relax rather than annoy him either way. And Kevin has always been the sort of person to undertake every sort of task with the utmost concentration, so even the lack of conversation doesn’t feel too strange. It is difficult to uphold a proper conversation with someone who only agrees with you.

Connor strains his mind trying to remember if Kevin had ever been a person to talk very much and has to admit to himself that maybe he hadn’t. He could not be considered a quiet person, per se, and had spoken when he had something to say, especially when he had ideas or suggestions, but Cunningham had been the talkative one in their duo.

“Pans?” Kevin asks, pulling Connor out of his thoughts. He looks up to meet Kevin’s questioning eyes.

“Oh, the drawer under the oven,” he says, watches to make sure that Kevin finds them, and is hit by a thought. “Maybe tomorrow after work we can go looking for some new clothes for you.”

The government-issued grey pants and shirt look more like a prison uniform than anything else and the dull color probably contributes to Kevin’s almost pasty-looking complexion.

“If you want,” Kevin says easily, or neutrally, and rummages through the drawer to find the right lid to the saucepan he had picked out.

“We’ll have to make a budget this week though,” Connor admits, and strangely it feels almost like when he had shown the new Elders around in the village and had been forced to admit that they had yet to baptize a single person into the church. “And maybe we’ll have to look for clothes in thrifts stores.”

“Okay,” Kevin says, and he doesn’t look very bothered by the idea so Connor relaxes a bit.

“We’ll have to plan our grocery shopping as well,” he says, because he might as well come clean all at once, and he hopes that Kevin won’t feel guilty about this.  “My—our—economy will be a bit…tight, for a while. Not impossible, but we can’t go on any huge shopping sprees or anything, you know.”

Kevin places the saucepan on the stove, looking thoughtful, but at least not in the distant way that Connor has noticed that he become sometimes when his eyes go almost blank and his thoughts are focused somewhere else entirely. “Did you… want me to work, somewhere, as well?”

“If you want to,” Connor hurries to say, but it only seems to make Kevin look confused, so he continues. “Poptarts’ family has a rental service in town. They’d been planning to hire someone new to take care of administration and paperwork, mostly, but they said they don’t mind taking you in instead. I mean, they’ll have to transfer the salary to me and mark it as ‘allowance’ or something, but I can open a separate account for you.”

He bites his lip, because Kevin knows as well as he does that it’s illegal, but Kevin merely looks confused again. “Poptarts?”

Well, maybe Connor can’t blame him for not making the connection, not after seven years. “Do you remember Elder Thomas? We used to call him Poptarts?”

“Sure.” Kevin looks thoughtful again, maybe not entirely pleased, though Connor doesn’t understand why. “So when should I start?”

The pasta water has started to boil but with his back to the stove, Kevin doesn’t seem to notice, so Connor gently pushes him aside to add the spaghetti. “If you want, in a couple of weeks.”

He feels like he is saying ‘if you want to’ a lot, but it’s difficult to stop himself, even though he is starting to doubt that Kevin is going to say anything about what he actually wants anytime soon. If there even if anything he wants, anymore, a more sinister part of his mind adds. “We thought we’d give you some time to get settled first.”

Kevin looks like he wants to say something more, but in the end he simply nods. “Okay”

They work in silence for a while, and it gives Connor the time to think, because even though it is illegal to use a Domestic Worker to earn money outside of home, Poptarts’ family had actually been rather pleased with the solution; they won’t have to go through the trouble of interviewing people, both Poptarts and Connor can vouch for Kevin’s suitability, and perhaps most importantly, they will reduce the salary quite a bit to at least somewhat make up for the money they had just spent to help Connor pay for the contract. But a low salary is better than nothing at all, and since the payments will be black money, strictly speaking, Connor won’t have to mentally remove the sum that would be lost on income tax. 

It is not that Connor particularly enjoys breaking the law, but there is still something petty in him that feels that with the government they have, one which legalizes institutional slavery, brainwashing and abuse, it is somehow his moral duty not to be a model citizen anymore. And this is from someone who has not even illegally downloaded a movie before in his life.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you a credit card,” Connor says as the thought hits him. They have sat down to eat at Connor’s tiny kitchen table (and Connor had tried to push away his discomfort at seeing Kevin hesitate and Connor having to tell him it’s okay to sit down at the table). “You wouldn’t be able to use it in stores anyway, the cashiers would know that you’re not supposed to have one.”

“That’s fine,” Kevin says.

For some reason Connor feels humiliated on Kevin’s behalf, because it is unspeakably terrible to lose your name and your legal identity, but somehow the realization hits home in an entirely different way when he considers the fact that Kevin is not actually authorized to have a bank account or sign any type of legal documents. Even children can have debit cards connected to their parents’ accounts, but Kevin is not allowed even that. He is effectively helpless without his Buyer to provide for him.

“I’ll open an account for you,” he promises, again. “I’ll tie an ATM card to it that you can use if you’re careful. Or you can simply ask me if you need a withdrawal.”

And Kevin simply nods while he swallows a mouthful of food. “Thank you.”

“You can help yourself to whatever you want in the apartment while I’m at work, by the way.” Connor bites his lip. “I guess you noticed I don’t have a TV… I’m sorry if there’s not much to do here. But there are books in the boxes over there,” he indicates to the boxes next to the nearly empty bookcase. “And there’s food in the fridge. Just… help yourself to anything.”

“Yes, s—Connor.”

Connor’s heart sink a bit; he hadn’t thought it sounded like he had been giving. “There’s a library not far from here too, you can borrow my library card if you want. And I’ll leave some cash if you need anything. Oh,” he blinks as he realizes something. “I’ll leave my cellphone here tomorrow as well. You can call me on my job phone if you need anything.”

Again, Kevin nods, and Connor exhales, somewhat disappointed even though he doesn’t know what else he had expected.

They continue their dinner in relative silence.

~*~

That night, Connor gives Kevin sheets, blankets and pillows before he retires to his own room. It is still a bit early, but something about the evening, about the whole week, feels exhausting and Connor finds himself longing to let his mind fall into the oblivion of sleep as soon as possible.

 Working at the center had given him a bit of an unfair advantage, especially seeing as they had done a rather thorough background check on him before they had hired him. That, as well as the fact that he had been willing to sign the contract as soon as possible and without arranging another meeting with Kevin, had immediately pushed him to the front of the queue of Buyers. It had only taken a couple of days to take care of the necessary paperwork, and with the speed with which everything had somehow fixed itself, Connor feels like his mind hasn’t quite caught up to the facts yet.

He is officially a Buyer now, one of the people he and his classmates would frown upon only a little while ago.

He sits down on his bed; can faintly hear Kevin prepare a makeshift bed on the couch through the wall, and, well. It is harder than Connor had thought it would be. He feels like he is taking care of a child somehow, then promptly feels guilty because Kevin certainly isn’t. He’s obedient and helpful to a fault, and if it hadn’t been for quick flashes and the way he sometimes moves, Connor might even think that Kevin had somehow managed to erase every trace of himself and his own needs from his own body.

But how do other Buyers _handle_ it? Does micro-managing another person’s entire life come easily to some people, or does every Domestic Worker’s life involve various degrees of neglect?

Connor leans back on his bed and stares at the ceiling for a while, racking his brain for anything that he might have forgotten to tell, or give Kevin permission to do, anxiety crawling through his veins until he fumbles for the phone in his pocket.

Poptarts picks up almost immediately. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“I’m not sure I can do this,” Connor says flatly. He tries to continue, but there’s not really anything else to say.

Poptarts is silent for a moment, then says with all the simple rationality of a relatively uninvolved person, “Well, you sort of have to.”

And Connor knows that he is right, of course. There is a signed contract on his desk which says that Connor McKinley will provide food and shelter for ‘M9208.37’ in exchange for ‘domestic services’ during the following twelve months.

“I know,” he says pitifully. “He’s just… so _different_.”

“Did you expect him to be completely alright with everything once you got him away from the center?” Poptarts asks, and Connor grimaces because maybe some part of his mind had not quite thought so, but maybe he had still _hoped_.

When Connor doesn’t reply, Poptarts sighs. “Give it time. You’ll get used to each other. What did he think about working for us?”

“I don’t know,” Connor replies honestly. “But he’ll probably do it either way.”

“Good,” Poptarts says. “I’ll tell mom and dad, then. Do you think I could meet him sometime before he starts?”

“I guess,” Connor says vaguely, curious about what Poptarts would make of Kevin, but he also an odd surge of protectiveness spread in his chest. “Let’s just… wait a while, let us… him get settled first.”

Poptarts makes a sound of agreement. “Well, I was just about to take a shower. Call me later if you need anything.”

“I will. Thanks.”

And with that, Connor is left alone with his thought again. He stares at the ceiling for a moment longer, then forces himself to get up and change into his pajamas.

Things will probably look better tomorrow, he thinks. And if they don’t… well. He will have to deal with it, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone that have read this so far! Comments and thoughts are really appreciated, either here or my @ my tumblr notlikelionking.

Without curtains or blinds the living room never seems to get truly dark; Kevin lies on his back on the couch and watches the shadows that the streetlights outside the windows create in the ceiling and the occasional moving lights from a passing car. He somehow feels like he is continuously sinking, or falling, and he is trying to patiently wait for the disorientation to abate, but it’s difficult when his heart is refusing to slow down to a normal pace.

He used to think he understood how things worked. He had tried to grasp his own sort of control simply from learning to work with the system, but now he just doesn’t _know_ anymore. He doesn’t know what McKinley—Connor wants, maybe not even Connor himself knows that, and it is like all the uncertainty is keeping Kevin kind of hovering between worthlessness and what he thinks might be fear.

Maybe this is what it’s like to sink into despair. Or maybe that is just a way of saying that Kevin is panicking, but, just. He desperately needs something to hold on to, he knows that logically and emotionally, and his collar is usually a claustrophobic reminder but right now it’s something hard and constant, and the feeling of relief he gets from it is humiliating in its own right, but at least pressing his fingers against it keeps him from hyperventilating.

Connor McKinley’s life appears to be so normal, and from only one evening together it already feels like he is trying to lure Kevin into it, one tiny, kind consideration after another. Almost like there is something like safety within both their reach.

Kevin hasn’t felt truly safe since sometime before he turned nineteen, doesn’t truly remember what it feels like anymore.

He stares at the ceiling until his heart has finally slowed down and it doesn’t feel like he is standing at the edge of a cliff anymore. The couch, at least, is surprisingly comfortable, but so short that Kevin has to keep his legs bent. But that feeling is restriction is grounding, too, and it follows him into his sleep.

~*~

It feels like he has only slept for a couple of minutes when he is gently woken up by the sound of the bathroom door being locked. It is still dark outside, but the red numbers on the oven clock reveal that it is morning and that Kevin must have been asleep for roughly five hours.

He can hear that Connor is trying to be quiet while he showers, and Kevin considers staying where he is and pretending to sleep, but the couch is close enough to the kitchen table that it might feel awkward. Connor hasn’t given him any instructions, or even suggestions, but Kevin can at least try and make himself useful nonetheless, so he slides out from beneath the covers and gets dressed in the semi-darkness.

Back in Uganda Connor had preferred to eat porridge or oatmeal for breakfast. A quick look in the cupboards confirms that this is probably still the case, so Kevin takes out a saucepan from the drawer and begins to prepare breakfast for the two of them, setting the table while he waits for the oatmeal to boil.

He is just removing the saucepan from the heat when Connor emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed in his work clothes, hair damp. He stops when he sees Kevin by the stove, mouth forming an ‘o’-shape for a moment before he catches himself. “Oh, good morning. I’m sorry, I was trying not to wake you up.”

“Good morning,” Kevin replies. “And don’t worry about it.”

Connor peers into the saucepan, then goes to get milk and sugar while Kevin divides the oatmeal between the two of them.

“This is great,” Connor says as they begin to eat. “I really appreciate it.” And Kevin feels a tiny rush of pleasure to his chest because he has finally gotten something _right_ , but Connor continues. “You don’t really have to make breakfast for me every morning though, you know?”

Kevin shrugs, feeling oddly uncomfortable. “It’s no problem.”

“As long as you know that,” Connor says and looks for a moment like he’s going to continue, then makes a strange expression and simply resumes eating.

It’s only a quick breakfast before work; Kevin, lacking anything to really do, follows Connor to the door, feeling like a bit like a housewife from the fifties. But that’s not the worst role Kevin has ever played, so he doesn’t mind.

“I’m sorry there’s not much to do,” Connor says while he puts on his jacket. “I left my phone and job number on the kitchen table, if you need to reach me. Umm, other than that, just relax I guess.”

Kevin nods obediently and then Connor closes the door behind him. Since there is no sound of a key turning from the outside despite the fact that he had brought the keys with him, Kevin automatically reaches out to lock the door from the inside, then feels himself relax slightly as his thoughts don’t have to revolve around Connor any longer.

He takes care of the dishes, then brushes his teeth and takes a shower, the first entirely private shower he has taken in a while after almost an entire year of nothing but shower stalls and shared bathrooms. He takes the time to notice how thin his own body has gotten, as though his last job at the building site had removed any lingering trace of fat on his body and replacing it all with wiry muscles. But Kevin can also count his own ribs in the mirror, which may not be entirely healthy.

The rest of the day he occupies himself with unpacking several boxes of books and organizing the according to author on the bookshelf. He doesn’t know if Connor will appreciate the order but at least it keeps him occupied. After he’s finished he takes a break for lunch, then picks at the books on the shelves, trying to find something he might be interested in reading.

Connor has plenty of course books in subjects such as social policies and community health that tell Kevin very little and frankly looks too complicated for him to wish to deal with at the moment. In the end he picks a children’s book that he has read before, curls up on the couch and allows himself to get lost in the words for a while as he waits for Connor to come back.

~*~

Connor uses the time at work to try and clear his head, which actually works somewhat, if only because Clarice’s no-nonsense behavior forces him to see things the way they are, even more so than Poptarts does.

(“He’ll know that you’re expecting something of him.”

“I’m not expecting anything. I just want him to be himself.”

“And that’s not an expectation?” Clarice had squeezed his shoulder, and Connor has to take a moment to appreciate Clarice’s support, especially since she had been skeptical of this whole business ever since the beginning. “Jeez, you’ve only been here for a month and you’ve already put yourself in quite a position.”

“I always do that,” he mutters, mostly to himself, because yes. He does have a tendency to somehow involve himself in various causes. That’s why he had become one of the youngest district leaders in missionary history. That is why he had somehow accidentally become president of the HBTQ club. He must learn to just step away. Except, not this time. This time it would have been impossible to do so.

“Besides, you don’t get to fix him, especially not to make yourself feel better.” Clarice had finished their conversation. “That’s his business.”

And Connor has to reluctantly admit that maybe she is right.)

When he gets home, he is greeted by the sight of Kevin napping on the couch, curled up and with a book on his lap, his head tilted back against the backrest. And even though Connor tries to be quiet, just like he had this morning, he notices Kevin begin to move before Connor has even had the time to shrug out of his jacket.

“Sorry,” Connor says quietly. “Go back to sleep if you want.”

Kevin covers his yawn with his hand. “Were not going shopping?” His voice is rough with sleep; he sits up slowly and rubs his eyes.

“Only if you feel up for it.” Connor steps inside the apartment and drops his bag onto the kitchen table, noticing the neat arrangement of books in the bookcase. “Wow, you didn’t have to do that.”

Kevin, beginning to look more alert, shrugs. “I’m fine.” He doesn’t comment Connor’s second statement.

“Great.” Connor looks at him uncertainly. “Want to leave at once? Better to get it over with, right?”

Kevin simply nods.

Thankfully, it turns out to be quite possible to find decent clothes in thrift stores and from cheaper lines. Connor tells Kevin to pick out the things he likes, and maybe Kevin takes that as an order because he does so with almost mechanical practicality, making sure that he doesn’t pick anything that is too expensive. But the clothes he picks out are anonymously boring, and Connor, who prefers that everyone have some sort of flair in their lives, throws him some more colorful things that Kevin accepts without comment.

It’s not the most enjoyable shopping trip that Connor has been on (and let it be known that Connor McKinley does like fabulous clothes) but at least it is effective, and they are finished much earlier than Connor had predicted. He is just checking his wristwatch while they’re stepping out of the final store, Kevin holding the door open for him, when he hears a familiar voice say his name. He looks up, startled, and yes, that’s Amanda, an underclassman who had taken over his duties as president of the HBTQ club once Connor graduated. He had forgotten that she commuted from Orem. “Oh, hi. How are you?”

She shifts the bags she is holding from one hand to the other. “Fine. Just taking a break from studying,” she says easily, and Connor smiles.

“Right. Exams are coming up.”

“Not that you have to worry about it anymore.” She glances at Kevin who is standing silently to the side, with mild disinterest as first, then her eyes widen as she takes in the collar around his neck. “And this is…?”

“Right. This is Kevin. Err, Kevin, this is Amanda, a friend from school.”

“Seriously?” she says, eyes wide as she takes in Kevin’s appearance, and Connor strangely feels his face begin to heat up, suddenly remembering what Poptarts had said that people were going to think.

“He’s a friend.”

“ _Friend_.” Amanda’s lips curl up in a tiny smile, but it is not mean as much as teasing. “Well, he’s cute,” she says, as though Kevin isn’t standing _right there_ , but Kevin’s neutral expression doesn’t change at all and Connor suspects that he might be used to it. “I thought you were against the system, though.”

“I am,” Connor says quietly, glancing at Kevin again and feels awkward having to discuss this right now. “As should you be.”

“I am, I promise. Just, wow.” She shakes her head, and Connor frowns. He wants to protest that Kevin really _is_ a friend, and tell her the whole story and somehow make her understand, not just about this individual situation but about _everything_. But then he glances at Kevin again, who is standing patiently by his side as though awaiting further instructions, but when Connor pays attention he can see that Kevin is shivering. And Connor hasn’t thought about it because it’s not that late in the year yet, but the wind today is cold and Kevin’s government-issue clothes don’t appear to be very thick.

“It was nice to meet you again, Amanda,” he lies. “But we really should get going.”

“Yeah, I should get back to my books, anyway,” she says with a shrug. “See you.”

Connor gives her a tiny wave goodbye and forgets himself for a second as he grabs Kevin under the elbow to direct him towards the nearest coffee shop. Kevin jumps at the contact and Connor lets go, embarrassed. “Sorry. Just… let’s go warm ourselves up somewhere. It’s getting cold outside.”

And Kevin nods, almost absent-mindedly, and follows him without comment.

~*~

Kevin holds the door open for Connor before gratefully stepping into the warmth of the small coffee shop. It is almost empty at this time of the evening, with a bored-looking barista at the counter re-arranging the remaining sandwiches and cakes that are on display. And he can tell that Connor is tense from the meeting with his friend earlier, even though he is trying not to show it. But Kevin doesn’t know what he can do about it so he finds himself shrinking back and hoping that it will blow over soon.

“Order whatever you want,” Connor says while he unzips his jacket, his cheeks and ears red from the wind outside, then addresses the barista, “Chamomile tea, please.”

Kevin nods and glances at the menu above the counter, even though he already knows what he wants to order and that it will probably not be outrageously expensive. “Espresso, please. No milk.”

The barista looks at his collar, then up at his face and finally over at Connor in askance; it’s a somewhat familiar routine but Kevin still has to force himself to keep a frown off his face because she must be either deaf or seriously daft not to have heard Connor’s permission from earlier.

Connor, for his part, looks back at her blankly for a few seconds before blinking in realization.

“Uh, you heard him,” he says, sounding flustered, before beginning to pat himself down in search for which pocked he had last tucked his wallet into. “How much is it?”

He pays for their orders and they wait at the counter for a moment to get the drinks. Kevin warms his fingers against the cup in appreciation as they walk over to claim a table.

“I thought you swore off coffee after that one time in Uganda,” Connor says while they sit down. He is smiling slightly, but from the look in his eyes, Kevin can’t tell if he is actually happy or sad.

And it has been years since Kevin last thought about that, but can somehow still find it in himself to wince at the memory, not so much because of his overindulgence if caffeine and the resulting nausea as much as from the circumstances surrounding it and how important things had seemed back then.

“That was a long time ago,” he says simply, and feels a bit guilty for the way Connor’s smile slips off his face.

He only drinks coffee sporadically and when it is available to him, but it’s a warm comfort, rich and bitter and entirely different from Mrs. Miller’s chocolates or the glasses of red wine that she would give him until his muscles relaxed despite himself. Pliant had been her favorite word. Mr. Adams had preferred ‘obedient’.

“We can buy some to keep at home if you want,” Connor offers, and Kevin feels strangely keen to get that smile back on his face, get something good into this day, so he nods and tries to smile back even though the memories of his previous Buyers keep overlying each other in his head in a confusing manner.

“Thank you.”

But it’s worth it, because Connor’s eyes light up, and Kevin feels himself relax slightly.

“I’m sorry if you were bored today,” Connor says after a moment. “I realized that I didn’t leave you my computer password, please remind me to do that. You can use it for whatever, really.”

“It’s fine.” Kevin doesn’t know what he would do on the computer anyway, except maybe read the news online. There are probably plenty of things that have happened online since he last had the opportunity to use the internet freely, plenty of new sites that are probably big and famous and that he has no idea of.

“Please tell me if there is anything you need. Or want,” Connor continues, as though Connor is the Worker and not him. Kevin has to force himself not to squirm because the thought is somehow so inherently uncomfortable.

“Yes, s—Connor. Sorry.” He berates himself for the slip-up; Connor merely makes a strange face.

Kevin doesn’t have wants, and only a minimal amount of needs, and he really must remember that. Even though it is hard, when Connor keeps insisting to treat him like a person, as though Kevin can have a purpose only by himself and not through what he can offer through his services.

But this is probably going to be Kevin’s existence for an entire year, and maybe he will just have to learn to work with it, the same way he has worked with everything else, however painful. And this _is_ probably better than the alternatives, either way, not that there is any use in thinking about alternatives as though Kevin has choices. But that’s fine, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to have to think, and as soon as he learns to understand what Connor wants and expect, Kevin will be able to slip into a proper routine.

God, his own mind is so frustrating sometime. It has been such a strange day.

He closes his eyes for a second to clear his head of any distractions, then opens then again and tries to give Connor that smile that Kevin knows that he wants. “So,” he says, because he knows that Connor wants that, too. “How was work?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the wait! Work kicked my ass for a bit, and then I got distracted by all the brilliant AUs that are going around on tumblr. I hope you’re not losing interest in this; thank you again for reading!

They settle into a routine of sorts. Years of sleeping lightly to attune to his Buyers’ wishes are not easily forgotten; Kevin wakes up the moment he hears Connor begin to move about in his bedroom. Every morning he slips into his clothes, drinks a glass of water and prepares breakfast that will be ready just in time for Connor when he steps out of the bathroom. And Connor keeps insisting that Kevin doesn’t have to, but Kevin can see the way his eyes light up a little, and takes that as permission to continue. It is good to make his Buyer happy; that makes Kevin happy.

The rest of the day is slower. There are only so many naps you can take before it starts to affect your ability to sleep at night, so Kevin has to restrict himself, even if it is nice to curl up and slip into unconsciousness. He entertain himself by cleaning and washing, unpacking whatever boxes that Connor says is okay that he touch. He cooks cheap meals from recipes he looks up online, reads several of Connor’s books, reacquaints himself with the Internet on Connor’s computer, watch movies on Netflix.

He likes Connor’s apartment, which might be small, but it has big windows that let in plenty of light even in the overcast autumn afternoons. Connor gives him the extra key, but he doesn’t go outside much unless Connor suggests that he run some errand during the day. He likes the quiet.

It is an empty existence, in a way. It has been years since Kevin last felt anything resembling restlessness, but maybe this is it. It is nice in a way, but also strangely infuriating at times, and he feels it like an itch beneath his skin, with the light panic that he usually feels when he is attuned to the presence of his collar.

Connor is consistently avoiding giving Kevin a proper purpose, and that keeps Kevin feeling more helpless than he usually does because it is like there is absolutely nothing he can do to affect his own existence. Lacking that, he tries to find it in himself to attune himself to how Connor reacts to his actions.

Connor likes it when Kevin gives suggestions or make small-talk, but it is difficult to do that because that implies that Kevin _has_ opinions and desires, but he tries his best. His mind sometimes feels slow, like his thoughts are continuously hindered by something thick and heavy in his brain, the very state that he has allowed himself to blissfully slip into for the past years now working against him. It is what the center had encouraged him to do, he logically knows that, but now he wonders if he will ever be fully able to force himself out of it, or if he even should. So in the end, Kevin is not sure that he will ever be quite enough for Connor’s wishes, but at least that is something to strive for.

During their first week together Connor had asked Kevin to join him and help him make a budget, but Kevin had stared at the numbers and been forced to admit to himself that he doesn’t remember any of this. Maybe he never really had to consider money in this way in the first place. He feels slow, almost stupid, keeps quiet and lets Connor do most of the work, with Kevin merely throwing in suggestions regarding what they may or may not need.

But Connor seems to be getting used to that approach, either way. Kevin is sensitive to the way Connor is relaxing into Kevin’s presence, tries to enhance that by doing whatever keeps Connor smiling.

The thing is, Kevin does feel things, sometimes. Small stiches that he tries to push away, the most persistent one being the strange sensation that he actually _genuinely_ wants to please Connor. Because Connor has a nice smile, and his presence is somehow both stressful and in a way comforting. And he has never been anything but nice to Kevin, now in Uganda and not now.

He had been more cheerful back in Uganda, Kevin thinks, but that has given way for a more genuine calmness, even if there are bursts of excitement from him whenever something comes up that he is passionate about, whether it is politics or clothes, musicals, or the plot twist in whatever TV-show they watch together after dinner. And Kevin likes those moments when Connor’s eyes light up in excitement, likes the twinge he feels in his heart at the sight and the almost-safety he feels when Connor just looks _happy_.

His head hurts sometimes from the effort of trying to keep his head and heart separate. Not in a bad way as much as it is frustrating, because it keeps him off-balance. But that’s pretty much his entire existence at the moment, either way.

He had been re-introduced to the former Elder Thomas (whom Connor simply calls Poptarts) the other week and Kevin had been slightly embarrassed to admit that he had barely recognized the former Elder. With the exception of Arnold, Nabalungi and Connor, his memories of the other Elders are fuzzy at best, and Thomas has gained both weight and what Kevin assumes is maturity since then. But his cheer had been slightly less forced than Connor’s had been for the first couple of weeks, and while friendly, he had also been businesslike, which is familiar and reminds Kevin of the foremen any of the physical jobs he had done during the last couple of years. Even so, Kevin is not blind to the way his eyes had darted between his collar and his eyes.

He had held out a hand for Kevin to shake, however, which had been a first, and Kevin had looked at it blankly for a second before he had taken it, found himself squaring his shoulders from some sort of subconscious memory of pride that he hasn’t even been forced to learn to repress.

It had been a short and relatively awkward meeting, at least for Thomas and Connor, because Kevin doesn’t really feel the responsibility or right to care about that. He will start working for their family within a couple of weeks, and that’s fine, he supposes.

Everything is relatively fine.

~*~

The melody is soft enough not to startle Kevin as much as it confuses him; it takes a moment before he realizes that it is coming from the cellphone that Connor has continued to leave on the kitchen table along with a post-it with the pin code every morning, and which Kevin has never as much as touched.

He sets aside the plate that he had been washing and in his surprise he doesn’t remember to reach for the kitchen towel and instead he dries his hands on the front of his pants. The phone is lit with a series of unfamiliar numbers and Kevin considers not answering until he realizes that Connor’s work phone number might not be added in his personal phone.

He rubs his fingertips against his pants again to make sure they’re dry, then takes the phone from the table and swipes across the display to pick up the call. “Connor McKinley’s phone.”

It sounds like there is interference, and the first words he hears are hesitantly stuttered through bad reception. “Oh… hello. Who is this?”

And there is a strangely soft pang in Kevin’s heart when he recognizes the voice, but then it starts to spread in his chest and it is painful in an unfamiliar way that feels like it is going to slowly keep him from breathing. “…Arnold Cunningham?”

There is a pause, and Kevin can’t tell if it’s because of the interference or some other reason entirely. But when Arnold replies, his voice is shrill. “ _Kevin_? Is this—is this a joke? Because it’s not funny.”

Kevin’s voice somehow feels thick in his throat. “What?” There is only silence on the other end. “I—I don’t understand.”

“I got this weird email from Eld—McKinley, I mean, and it doesn’t make _sense_ , and now you’re answering the phone number he left and--” The sound begins to fail again as the reception seems to get worse, and Kevin grips the phone tightly, finds himself _needing_ not to lose this connection. The intensity of the feeling would be terrifying if his mind hadn’t been otherwise occupied.

“--I even tried to contact your family, but they refused to talk to me,” Arnold is saying when the connection steadies again. His voice softens. “I thought we were friends.”

Kevin can’t breathe. “We are,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand,” Arnold says, voice small in that way only Arnold can really pull off without sounding like cartoon character. “What’s going on? McKinley said some strange things.”

The feelings are seeping out of Kevin now, he can feel exhaustion beginning to take over. “I don’t know what he told you,” he says, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “But I guess it’s probably true.”

There is silence then, and Kevin doesn’t know what to say either so he simply stands there, in the middle of the living room, his stomach churning unpleasantly.

“How?”

Kevin shakes his head. His parents’ betrayal has hurt him for so long, he can barely feel the sting anymore. “It doesn’t matter. It’s--” he trails off, unsure what to say.

“But, you’re—why are you answering the phone?” Arnold sounds almost comically confused. “Did you escape? Are you on the _run_?”

Kevin very nearly snorts; only pure instinct and years to practice being polite stops him. “I’m staying with him for a while. He… he’s paid for a contract.”

More silence, then Arnold says, hesitantly. “Buddy, I--”

A lump of shame in his throat, heavy and painful, and he can’t find it in himself to appreciate the sympathy. Never that. And he knows not to interrupt, but Arnold is the least threatening person that Kevin has ever known, and this whole conversation is throwing him off, makes him feel less like himself, or more like himself, perhaps. “Never mind. How are _you_?”

The Arnold from years ago would probably not pick up on his tone, but now he accepts the change of topic without protest.

They talk for a while, awkwardly. Before hanging up, Arnold says that he will call again, and Kevin doesn’t know if he is even physically or mentally capable of saying no anymore, so he doesn’t.

Once he is left alone again the apartment feels strange, like everything has shifted or gotten tilted somehow, simply because Kevin has heard his best friend’s voice for the first time in years. It is slowly getting dark outside; he puts the phone down on the table and stretches his fingers that almost feel stiff from gripping the phone so tightly.

The dish water has gotten cold, so he changes it before he continues to mechanically wash the dishes.

~*~

The apartment is dark when Connor gets home, which is unusual. Logically he knows that Kevin might be out somewhere, talking a walk perhaps, but that is such a break from their usual routine that he can’t help but feel disconcerted by it. He flicks the light switch on in the hall, then catches himself, oddly startled to see Kevin curled up on the couch, eye open and very obviously awake, his chin resting in his hand. He blinks at the sudden light, as though he had truly not noticed Connor unlocking and entering the apartment.

“Hey. Welcome home.” He sits up straight and lets his hands fall to his sides. “Did you have a good day?”

The smile is certainly not genuine and the words sound emptier than usual. Connor pauses for a moment before bending down to unlace his shoes. “…are you okay?”

“Sure,” Kevin says, even as he wraps his arms around himself, as though there is a draft, but the apartment is actually pretty warm. The oven is on, Connor realizes, with something resting on the stove, waiting to be cooked. “I talked to Arnold.”

Connor blinks. “What?”

Kevin shrugs, even though it is obvious that he is bothered. “Yeah. He… called.”

“Called?” Connor asks, before remembering. He had left his phone number in the mail that he had sent several weeks ago. He shrugs out of his jacket. Caught up in everything else, he had forgotten about even sending that email in the first place.

As he steps into the apartment, he looks at Kevin carefully, because this might be the oddest he has ever observed him acting, thus far, and he is not sure if that is a good thing or not. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Kevin mutters. Then, quietly. “He said you wrote to him… about me.”

“I did.” Connor confesses. “Weeks ago. Before you… got here. I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to.”

“You don’t need permission from me,” Kevin says, and Connor blanches at that. Legally, that’s true, of course.

“I’m sorry,” he says. After hesitating for just a moment he walks over to sit down on the couch, and part of him wants to touch Kevin somehow, rest a hand on his shoulder, anything that might help get rid of that tenseness in his face and shoulders. But Kevin looks somehow entirely unapproachable at the moment, so Connor merely folds his hands in his lap awkwardly. “I was just worried.”

“Okay.” The word is entirely neutral, but Kevin looks so entirely sad when he says it, Connor can’t help but wince.

“I’m tired,” Kevin mumbles, then, remorsefully, and that’s not what Connor had expected, but from the sound of it, it might be the most genuine thing Kevin has said since they first met. And he _looks_ tired too, or perhaps defeated would be a better word for it. When he leans back he seems to sink into the pillows, looking smaller than he is, and Connor’s chest aches as the sight.

“Take a nap then,” he says mildly, and again resists the urge to reach out to pat Kevin’s shoulder or knee. “I’ll finish dinner.”

Kevin looks like he might protest, then gets an odd look on his face before relaxing somewhat. “Forty minutes in the oven,” he says.

“Got it.” Connor tries to smile, but realizes that it doesn’t feel genuine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to invade on your privacy.” But that merely earns him an odd look, so he continues. “Want to borrow my bed for a while?”

He feels bad for it the moment he says it, because Kevin seems to stiffen at that and Connor doesn’t even want to think about why.

“The couch is fine,” Kevin says then, and that’s almost a ‘no’, which makes something in Connor’s chest twinge in a pretty good way. Or it would be, at least, if Kevin hadn’t also looked so tired.

“Sure,” Connor says, and finally allows himself to pat Kevin’s knee for just a moment. “Just take it easy, okay?”

“Mhm,” Kevin says, seems to sink deeper into the pillows of the couch, and Connor stands up to give him some privacy,

~*~

Kevin looks at what Connor is holding out, questioningly. “What’s this?”

“A phone, silly.” And Connor looks a bit embarrassed, despite his teasing tone. “It’s old, I know. And long-distance calls are expensive, but. If you want, you can give Cunningham your number? You’ll pay for the calls yourself once you start working, of course.”

“Oh.” Kevin reaches out to take it. It’s an old flip-phone; he used to have something similar back when he was a teenager, before his first smartphone. “Thanks.”

He is not sure he even really wants to talk to Arnold again. Or rather, part of him _desperately_ wants to. Part of him even yearns for one of Arnold’s stupid, invasive, warm hugs, too, but he is not sure he would actually enjoy it if he ended up receiving one right at this moment.

“I’ll give you my work number too,” Connor says softly, sounding almost shy. “If you want it, I mean.”

“Sure,” Kevin says simply.

Yesterday had been strange. He had almost felt angry, somehow, in an entirely terrifying way, because he doesn’t remember the last time he had felt anger like that. It hadn’t really been directed at Connor, either, even though Connor seemed to have taken it that way. And Kevin had tried to reign himself in and get back into his proper mindset, but with Connor hunching his shoulders and looking so low, it had been difficult. If anything, Kevin had actually felt powerful for just a moment, before he had managed to remind himself of what he was actually doing. He had deflated then.

He had slept for a while, for the first time completely unaware of Connor moving about in the apartment, and when he had woken up Connor had already eaten and left a plate out for Kevin. It had been strange to be the only one eating while they had watched the next episode of the show they are working through together.

“Thank you,” he says again, studying the phone closer, knowing that their budget had certainly not included a new cell-phone, of all things. “I’ll be careful with it.”

“No problem,” Connor says, and he looks almost embarrassed again, but also pleased, and Kevin finds himself almost wanting to smile back.  


	8. Chapter 8

Working for Thomas’ family is nice enough, Kevin supposes. They are the very epitome of the middle class family and their eyes stray to his collar even if they are too polite to pretend it exists. It is no surprise that they are unused to having him around; Kevin is on equally unfamiliar ground. Through the years he has worked for larger corporations, on building sites of various kinds, and, of course, in private upper class homes. A small, family-owned business like this hiring a Worker is probably rare, or even unheard of.

They refer to him as ‘Price’, not so much because he had introduced himself as such as because that is the name Thomas uses for him. Hearing the name had made him almost wince at first; he had schooled his expression carefully because in the end, it doesn’t matter what they call him.

Thomas’ cousin Karen calls him Kevin, at least. She is the person that he will be replacing, and from the looks of it, very soon.

“Twins,” she had said ruefully, the first time they had met. “But it feels like there are at least four of them in there.”

Embarrassed and a bit chagrined for being caught looking, Kevin lowers his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

“Oh.” Her brows furrow for a moment before she smiles again. “That’s alright. I know I look like a house right now. It’s a weird thing to get used to, but, well.”

And there is something so comfortable and friendly about her, Kevin almost opens his mouth to protest, until he remembers that his opinion doesn’t matter either way.

Karen is a sweet woman, not past thirty-five but already a mother of two, and she is constantly moving around despite the fact that she, of all people, should probably be allowed to take a moment to rest. She teaches Kevin what he needs to know, and both of them have to admit that it is not a very complicated work. Mostly, it involves taking phone calls, registering and filing rental applications and making sure that the payments are in order.

“We get plenty of tourists in the summer,” she says while she shows him how their computer system is structured. “But in the winter it’s mostly regulars. We’ve got contracts with some bigger companies. It’s a pity you can’t hide that,” she adds, glancing at his collar quickly, a strange expression on her face. “Some people that come here might raise their eyebrows.”

He lifts his hand to his throat, surprisingly self-conscious about something that has been a part of him for years. “I’m sorry, but--”

“I know you’re not allowed to,” she says, smiling a little as though she can sense his anxiety and wants to help ease it, but then it falters. “I’m sorry. I’ve never really talked to a--well.” She shrugs. “I don’t mean to be insensitive or anything. I’ve always been against the system, I promise.”

Kevin doesn’t quite know what to do with that piece of information but she continues to look at him as though expecting a response, so he shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

She surprises him by actually picking up on his carefully sardonic tone of voice, giving him a half-smile in return. “I guess you are.”

It turns out to be easier to talk with her than with Connor; she is obviously not his Buyer, doesn’t technically have right to any part of him. And it has always been easier to talk to his co-workers, whether they are fellow Service Workers or simply regular people trying to make a living, and Kevin finds himself wishing that she wouldn’t be leaving in a couple of days.

_There are four of them working in the archives, Kevin and another Service Worker plus two young women, one archivist and one information technician respectively. The work is mind-numbingly dull in a way that Kevin would normally appreciate if he didn’t keep feeling Mrs. Miller’s eyes on him whenever he is walking through the corridors alone. It has been two whole months since she had returned him to the center, but for some reason her almost lilting voice is lingering in his head, her fingers somehow still ghosting over his cheekbones. Some nights he thinks he might be going insane, even cries into his pillow, helpless and confused, until the other Worker with whom Kevin shares a room while they’re on the job, tells him to shut up._

“Are you alright?” Karen asks, her voice concerned. “You look a little pale.”

Kevin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t want to worry her. “I’m fine.”

~*~

“Are you sure you don’t want to use any of your salary?” Connor asks slowly one evening. He is looking up fabrics that might be suitable to use for curtains, has asked Kevin about colors themes and styles all evening (and apparently there are colors in the world that Kevin has not even _heard_ of). By now he has narrowed his choices down a bit and seems to hesitate, has probably reached the stage in his internet shopping where he is going to question the necessity of what he wants to buy, sigh, and finally close the browser without ordering anything. “You’ve never really asked for it. Just tell me and I’ll make a withdrawal for you.”

Kevin glances down at the book in his lap regretfully. He can hear an edge in Connor’s voice that Connor himself may not be aware of, but it sounds displeased. Or dejected, possibly; certainly not positive. “I thought we needed to save money.”

“Well.” Connor shifts position, putting his laptop aside on the coffee table as he turns to face him, resting his elbow on the back of the couch. “Of course. But we should be able to indulge sometimes too, right?”

You bought me a phone, Kevin wants to point out. He doesn’t talk to Arnold very often, rarely has the energy to make the call, but when he does it is good. The conversation is halting and the phone lines aren’t ideal, but Kevin still holds the privilege close to his heart. There are very few things that are _his_ , but the connection to Arnold, unfamiliar and foreign as it might feel at times, is. Arnold may have changed in several small ways, but he is still supportive and trusting, and those qualities somehow feel like balm on wounds that Kevin hadn't known that he had.

He realizes that Connor is still looking at him, waiting for a response, so he shrugs slightly. “There’s nothing I really need.”

“No, I mean, is there anything you _want_?” Connor asks, all earnestness and concern, and the expectation in his voice weighs heavily over Kevin’s shoulders. He can’t say no, but he also can’t say yes. It is a strangely claustrophobic feeling, pulling at him and compressing him at the same time.

Sometimes he almost hates Connor for doing this to him, for expecting Kevin to be _normal_ , for forcing him to feel a whirlpool of emotions that Kevin has avoided for so long. The illusion of almost-safety in Connor’s apartment is starting to make him afraid of everything outside of it.

He will never manage to be what Connor expects him to.

And if Kevin really allows himself to consider what he wants, the answer that comes to mind is that mostly, he wants to be left alone. He wants Connor to stop looking at him like this, and he wants the feeling like he is slowly being pulled apart to stop. He wants to not have to think.

He shouldn’t be focusing on his own desires. When Kevin clears his mind he can instinctually feel what Connor wants, at least. _“Know your Buyers’ needs before they know it themselves,”_ the mantra goes.

And maybe it had not been the conscious decision behind buying Kevin’s contract, but Kevin remembers the way Connor used to look at him admiringly, how his cheeks would flush as he averted his eyes when Kevin caught him looking. It is not quite the same anymore; Connor’s eyes are kinder now, his expressions carefully restrained, and his eyes still full of that strange second-hand guilt that Kevin will probably never understand.

But either way, he is attuned to his Buyer, not so much from a conscious choice as from years of practice. He notices the uncertainty in the way Connor holds himself around him, his shyness and his anger and, well. It is carefully hidden, that note of desire, and Kevin has been trying to ignore it for months. His stomach feels heavy with guilt, he twists on the couch to tuck his legs beneath him, not sure how to go about this. He has never needed to be the instigator before.

“I want _this_ ,” he says quietly, hesitantly, as he leans closer.

Connor blinks at the sudden close proximity, inches back slightly, wide-eyed, and Kevin feels bad for it, rests one hand on Connor’s shoulder, his thumb brushing over the pale skin of his neck, above his shirt. It is one of the first times that they have touched, Kevin realizes. It doesn’t feel threatening, not really.

It is strange to realize that he doesn’t really know what he is supposed to do, so he tries to decipher Connor’s expression. But Connor merely looks, well, a little hesitant, even as there are spots of red appearing on his cheeks. So Kevin tries to let go of the worry that is worming in his stomach and leans forward to kiss him, carefully, still not sure if it is a kiss to say thank you, or a kiss to tell Connor that it is alright for him to do whatever he wants.

Connor makes a surprised sound in his throat when their lips meet, but he doesn’t pull away. The skin on his neck is hot to Kevin’s touch; he traces his fingers over the fine hairs he feels there, and it is not a bad kiss, really. It is certainly the best one that Kevin has ever had, not that it says much. His heart is still racing; it has been so long since he was close to a Buyer like this last. But then Connor pulls away, all breathless and wide-eyed, a crease of worry between his eyebrows.

“I want to make you feel good,” Kevin says, as earnestly as he can, and is honestly surprised when Connor’s eyes seem to gain focus before his face sort of drops and he makes an odd grimace.

“Don’t,” Connor says softly, confusingly, and after a shaky intake of air, he continues. “Can you… not touch me?”

Kevin pulls his hand away from Connor’s shoulder, and his stomach is already tightening. “I’m sorry. I--”

Connor’s mouth is pressed closed, his lips thin, and Kevin doesn’t know how to interpret that expression, except that it is certainly displeasure. Not at all what Kevin had expected, even though he _knows_ that he had pushed, and what had he been _thinking_?

Kevin scrambles away from his Buyer, barely manages to straighten his curled-up leg in time to keep from falling off the couch. But then, kneeling seems like a good idea right now; that is something he is supposed to do, he feels a heavy pressure over his shoulders and neck, as though his body is trying to force him down before his mind has really caught up with him.

He dares to take a look at Connor’s face and there is something so entirely disappointed there, it feels like a needle piercing his heart, and Kevin can’t stand that either, really can’t, can’t escape his feelings.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, helplessly. He is spiraling, he knows, spiraling back into something he hadn’t even realized that he had begun to dig himself up from. At first it feels almost good because his feelings seem to disentangle from him, evaporate into darkness, but then a sense of panic returns, tightening around him all the while it feels like he is falling. It is unbearable.

He barely remembers to pause long enough to force his feet into his shoes before stumbles outside, fleeing.

~*~

Stunned, Connor touches a finger to his lips. He wants to tell Kevin to wait, but his voice doesn’t work properly, and then Kevin is gone and Connor is left alone in a silent apartment.

He hadn’t expected – well. Of course he hadn’t, but something in him had still jolted, caused his heart to speed up when Kevin had leaned in close like that. Like a faint memory of a feeling, perhaps, something Connor has always wanted. And it has been so long since Connor last kissed someone, maybe that plays a part as well, but it had been a split-second that had just been so _nice_ , until he had realized how cold Kevin’s hand had been on his neck, how stiffly he had been holding his shoulders, and Connor’s heart had dropped to his stomach.

He doesn’t know for how long he stays on the couch, curled up as though that would somehow help him to calm his whirling thoughts. His chest and throat aches.

He had _known_ that there is no way Kevin could want this, and yet Connor had kissed him back. But what, what in the _world_ had possessed Kevin to do it in the first place? Connor groans in frustration, curling his fingers into his hair. He can’t erase the image of Kevin’s wide-eyed, almost terrified expression before he had stumbled to his feet. And where had he _gone_? As far as he knows, Kevin rarely goes anywhere except to work or, very rarely, to run an errand or two.

_He’s an adult, silly_ , he tells himself. Besides, maybe they do need a break from each other. Maybe Connor should stay at Poptarts’ place tonight? But Connor may be able to talk with Poptarts about a lot of things, but _this_ , this is somehow too much.

So Connor carefully tries to relax his body, then stands up, mechanically, and takes his and Kevin’s plates with him to the kitchen area to wash them. After that he takes a shower, tidies up a bit. He is looking at the time, considering changing into his pajamas, trying to keep the worry from getting the upper hand, when his cellphone rings, nearly causing him to jump out of his own skin.

He fumbles after his phone, Kevin’s name lighting up the screen. “Hello?”

It is quiet for a while, but he thinks he can hear Kevin breathe on the other end. “Hey. There’s no GPS on this phone and, I’m not sure where I am.”

His voice is apologetic and carefully neutral. Connor bites his lip. “Do you have anything around you?”

“There’s a Harmons. And a pet shop I think,” Kevin replies quietly. “I’m on the sidewalk.”

“I’ll pick you up,” Connor says, even though his stomach feels weird at the thought of facing Kevin again so soon. “Just, stay where you are.”

There is another moment of silence, and what sounds like a shudder, before Kevin says, “Okay.”

~*~

Connor ends up taking the car even though he knows that it is not too far, and he can’t help but think about how little Kevin must have really left the apartment since he moved in, if he truly doesn’t know how to find his way home from a place that is relatively close to the city central. At first he is afraid that the car won’t start because it is surprisingly freezing outside and his car doesn’t have a block heater. But through some miracle it does start, and Connor drives slowly as he scans the sidewalks, hoping that he doesn’t look like too much of a creep.

In the end it is not difficult to spot Kevin. He is sitting directly on the sidewalk, hunched over and with his arms around his legs. He is not wearing a jacket, and despite the cold his shirt is still dutifully tugged down to keep his collar visible. He doesn’t seem to care, or notice, the curious looks that the people passing by are giving him.

Connor stops the car on the side of the road and steps outside, hurrying around the car. Some of the trepidation he felt about facing Kevin again so soon is fading when he sees how pitiful the other man is looking. “Hey. Let’s go home.”

Kevin doesn’t raise his head, but it looks like he tries to move. Once he lets go of his legs, however, his shoulders seem to get caught in a violent shiver that makes Connor momentarily afraid that he is not only reacting to the cold but is actually having some sort of seizure.

He squats down, resting one hand each of Kevin’s upper arms. “You’re freezing. Come on.”

Kevin moves stiffly as Connor helps him up and into the passenger seat of the car. Once Connor closes the door behind him he hurries back to the driver’s seat and the first thing he does is to turn on the heating to its maximum power.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin says, the first thing out of his mouth since the phone-call. Connor glances away from the road, but Kevin is not looking at him. “Please—I’m sorry.” He seems to have lost all restraint, sounds younger than Connor has ever heard him, and it is almost terrifying.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he replies. He doesn’t understand what happened tonight, but at the moment it is not that difficult to distance himself from it. He is more focused on trying to make sure Kevin is not having a full mental breakdown in front of him. “Just… don’t worry about anything. It’s fine.”

Kevin is quiet after that, and even though he doesn’t really try to move on his own, he allows Connor to lead him out of the car and up the stairs, strangely malleable once he has stopped shaking from the cold.

He even allows Connor to help him out of his shirt, and most of all Connor would like to get him to take a hot shower, but that seems unlikely at the moment. Kevin’s jeans are wet from sitting on the ground, however, and Connor hesitates, uncomfortable with the idea of trying to undress him like that. So instead he leads Kevin over to the couch and picks out a pair of sweat pants from his bag and puts them on the couch next to him. “Get changed. I’ll be in the next room.”

And when he gets back, Kevin is wearing a new set of clothes entirely, sitting stiffly on the couch and staring at the floor. He doesn’t look up when Connor returns, and Connor hesitates for a moment before he carefully sits down beside Kevin. Just like that, they are back in almost the same position as they started, a few hours earlier. Connor’s laptop is still on the coffee table, the screen black.

“I’m not going to pretend to know what’s going on,” Connor says quietly. “But it’s fine, I promise. Just… please try to get some rest.” Kevin doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to have heard. Hesitantly, Connor raises a hand to rest on Kevin’s shoulder, afraid to touch yet hoping to be able to offer some comfort, squeezing it lightly. “It’s alright.”

Kevin surprises him by moving, then, hunching down to rest his elbows on his spread knees, hiding his face in his hands. “It hurts.”

Connor pauses, worry rising in his chest. “What hurts?”

“Make it stop,” Kevin whispers, sounding boyish and pitiful. “Please.” He continues to mutter into his hands, and Connor feels a chill spread in his stomach because he is really not equipped to deal with a... a mental breakdown, or whatever this is. Should he be calling an ambulance? But his insurance doesn’t cover a Service Worker, and he is unsure of what a hospital would really be able to help him with, anyway.

“It’ll get better,” he promises instead, carefully resting his hand on Kevin’s back. Kevin doesn’t seem to react negatively to the touch, so Connor moves the hand up until he can curl his fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp gently. “Just… rest for a while. Don’t worry.”

Ever so slowly he can sense how the tension in Kevin’s body begins to subside. He stops shaking, stops mumbling to himself, merely sits there with his head in his hands, allowing Connor to run his fingers through his hair. It is getting longer, Connor finds himself reflecting; almost as long as it used to be back in Uganda, but cut differently and not styled at all, soft and devoid of any type of product. In Uganda it had always been carefully gelled. On hot days it would lose its volume and look almost wet. He shakes his head at the memory.

He has been focusing too much on his memories, he thinks. And he has been--well, too polite, perhaps, to really dare to bring up anything besides that. In Connor’s defense he has never really been that good at talking: he had spent the first twenty years of his life trying to turn his emotions off that best he could. But maybe that is not good enough anymore, he thinks. He had thought that Kevin was getting better, sort of, but maybe he was just getting better at acclimatizing, because to be honest, Connor has no idea what is going on inside his head most of the time. Tonight is proof of that.

Years ago, Connor used to dream about the feeling of Kevin’s lips against his. They would be warm and soft, careful yet somehow insistent, impatient. Inexperienced but interested. It had been nothing like the dry lips pushed against his tonight. Nothing like the feeling when Connor had realized that Kevin was doing it all purely because of _Connor_ and not at all because of whatever Kevin might want.

With his free hand he touches the tips of his fingers to his lips again, his throat tightening as he tries not to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the slow updates. Are people still reading?


	9. Chapter 9

Kevin wakes up feeling like he has spent the last couple of weeks at the building site in Logan; for a short moment he thinks that he is still _there_ and that the flickering memories of familiar faces and voices had been nothing but a strange, distressed dream. But he can't hear other men snoring around him, and he can't stretch his legs out completely, and when Kevin opens his eyes he is greeted by the increasingly familiar sight of Connor's living room.

Except something is _wrong_ ; the sun is shining through the windows at an angle that is unfamiliar to wake up to. Kevin sits up, moving slowly like an old man because his back, his shoulders and his neck feel stiff and sore. The clock above the oven tells him that it is well past what could be considered morning, and that is altogether strange. He doesn't remember exactly at what point he had fallen asleep last night, but this is the first time in _years_ that he has slept in, and the first time since moving in with Connor that he had not been awake to fix breakfast for the two of them. He is not sure exactly where that leaves him, because Connor had obviously not woken him up to get to work, either, but then his eyes fall to the note on the coffee table in front of him,

_I told Poptarts you're sick. Please rest._  
We'll talk when I get home.  
-C

Kevin carefully tries to soothe the guilt that rises at the thought of being a liability and for losing an entire day's worth of salary. And he is not sure that he wants to hear what Connor wants to tell him. Last night, Kevin had tried his best to be what Connor had wanted of him and it had obviously not worked out well for _either_ of them. It has been a resounding failure, and Kevin is way too practiced to do that very often. Is this when Connor realizes that Kevin can't be what Connor wants him to be? That it means that Kevin is more trouble than he is worth paying for?

The thought of being sent back to the center causes a dull ache in his chest, but on the other hand, maybe it would be a relief to slip back into the mindless routines. If he even can anymore. Maybe Connor has ruined that for him, too.

He rubs his face with his hands, tries to square his shoulders to see just how much they hurt, contemplating that for a moment before he forces himself to stand up. At least he has most of the day to himself to prepare himself.

Connor must have stroked his hair until Kevin had fallen asleep. He remembers the careful touch. It hadn't felt invasive. It had reminded him of something, though he can't quite place the feeling in relation to anything in particular. It hadn’t been unpleasant.

He runs his hand through his hair, as though trying to imitate the feeling, but is only reminded of the fact that he ought to shower, grimacing.

He does, and then he eats breakfast, does the dishes and begins to prepare dinner way earlier then he really needs to, setting the chopped ingredients aside in the fridge to rest. He is back to feeling a little like a ghost in Connor’s apartment, doing his best to occupy himself while knowing that nothing really matters. He reads the latest news on Connor’s laptop, considers calling Arnold but he feels too dulled; grey almost. But if Connor is sending him back, Kevin makes his mind up that he is going to call to say goodbye, at least.

He walks around the apartment, picking at things to clean or organize, then ends up back on the couch, listlessly logging in to Netflix to try and find something to watch.

~*~

Connor is trying to wane himself off sugar (he _really_ doesn’t like the pudge that had all too easily started to appear around his waist once he passed twenty-five) but there _are_ some things that warrant the use of it, so when he stops for gas on the way home, he steps inside the station and picks up not one but _two_ different kinds of cookies. Maybe they are a neutral enough offering to give Kevin to get them to sit down together for a bit, get some things _sorted out_. Connor remembers that Kevin had used to be very into sweet baked goods, back in the day. It is more doubtful whether he cares about things like that anymore, but, jeez. Kevin won’t be the _only_ one eating those cookies. Connor had a rough night, too.

He had been practically useless at work today; had spent way too much time staring at his computer screen blankly, trying to make sense of the thoughts flurrying through his brain and how his feelings relate to them. But the words won’t form sentences and his chest is mostly _aching_ , and he doesn’t know if it is from worry, humiliation, shock, or even stress.

Kevin had fallen asleep surprisingly quickly once he calmed down enough to breathe properly; Connor had somehow managed to urge him to lie down, had draped a blanket over his shoulders and known that he should probably have left him alone to sleep, but it had been too difficult to tear himself away. Maybe it had been entirely selfish; a part of Connor had _needed_ to stay, watch over him for a little while, feel as though Connor’s presence in some way might help Kevin ground himself. It had taken a long time before Connor had managed to force himself to go to his own bed, and longer still before he had fallen asleep.

He had thought that Kevin was, well, doing _better_. Better than _what_ , Connor isn’t quite sure of, but he has been smiling a little, and he has been talking without being asked a specific question. He has kept the phone Connor gave to him on his person at all times, like a child clinging to a favorite toy, and Poptarts has told him that he seems to be doing well at work. He describes him as a bit of an oddball, and not very talkative, but friendly and organized, and Poptarts’ family is so strangely accepting of anything odd and unusual that Connor can’t imagine that it is not going to work out on _that_ end.

And maybe Kevin had always seemed _distanced_ , somehow, like there is an invisible screen between him and the world, but.

He had seemed _better_.

So maybe that is why Connor had started to let his guard down. And maybe that is why he had held off really _talking_ with Kevin, tried to find out what was really going on with him. There had been times when Connor had wanted to, but Kevin, well, for all that he keeps himself open to anything, will help out and do any chore or follow any perceived order smoothly, he never opens himself up _mentally._ And Connor is very aware that Kevin’s feelings are his own, it seems to be the one thing he can intentionally or unintentionally keep under wraps, safely hidden away from the world. Or from himself?

Who is Connor to pry that away from him?   

But, honestly, if Kevin is going to start to _kiss him_ out of the blue like that, Connor feels justified to suspect that there is some grave miscommunication going on. And it would probably be imperative to both their sanities if they could just discuss this somehow.

Well. Maybe the cookies would help.

Before he can chicken out and possible run off to Poptarts’ place to hide, Connor takes a breath and unlocks his front door, as slow as he can to give Kevin a couple of seconds to prepare himself for Connor’s return. “I’m home!”

From his position in the hallway, Connor can see Kevin on the couch, legs curled up under him and with the laptop perched on his knees. He looks up, eyes a bit wider than usual. “Hi.”

Connor lets his bag slip from his shoulder and onto the floor as he steps out of his shoes. “How are you feeling?”

Kevin sets the laptop aside and stretches his legs out gingerly, and there is _something,_ in the way he is holding himself, in the tightness around his mouth. “A bit sore, but fine. Thanks.”

“Sorry I didn’t wake you this morning.” He is not sorry at all, actually, but he _had_ intentionally caused Kevin to miss an entire day of work without asking first. “It’s so unusual that you’re not already awake when I get up, so I thought you might need the rest. Besides, it’s Friday, so you could just consider it a long weekend.”

Kevin nods, raising one of his shoulders in a shrug, and he is smiling, despite that strange tightness around his mouth. “Thanks. I do feel better. What are--?” He gestures to Connor’s general person, vaguely.

Connor looks down at the two large packages of cookies in his hands, awkward all of a sudden as he sets them aside on the kitchen table.

“I have something to say,” he blurts out, surprising himself.

Kevin’s eyes widen a little; he straightens and leans back against the backrest of the couch. “Okay,” he says.

It doesn’t matter that Connor had spent the entire day trying to come up with something to say. He still isn’t entirely sure how he feels about _anything_ , so in the end he closes his mouth and looks at Kevin for a short moment, at a loss. Kevin looks back passively until Connor feels forced to lower his eyes.

“I used to have a crush on you,” he says, finally, and now his face is heating up, darn it. Cursing his pale complexion, he hurries to continue. “But I guess you knew that, right? I was never very… discrete.”

In retrospect, he is embarrassed with his younger self. But he had been a _kid_ , mostly, and he had thought that Elder Price had been the most wonderful human being to ever grace that part of the world; or any part of the world, really. Connor had been in _love_ , and he had hoped so desperately for it to be reciprocated, he tried to drop hints in any way that he could. It hadn’t helped that Kevin had been so _kind_ about it, despite how uncomfortable he must have been with the attention at times. It was something people often bonded over back in the HBTQ club at college. Connor was certainly not the first gay guy in the world to have once crushed on a straight man. Sharing embarrassing stories had even been _fun_ , at times.

Kevin makes a strange face, as though he is torn between two wills, and then inclines his head. Connor stops him before he even opens his mouth, however.

“Just, let me finish?” His face is probably scarlet by now. “It was a long time ago. And even if I still—I mean, I don’t. It wouldn’t feel _right_ , okay? And I know you think you’re paid to--to keep me _happy_ , or whatever. But that’s not what I want _at all_.” He winces at the choice of words, because talking about what Connor wants or doesn’t want is not exactly solidifying the point he is trying to bring across.

Kevin’s eyebrows are beginning to knit together in a frown, and it surprises Connor how strange it looks; like he has gotten so used to seeing Kevin being so carefully neutral, it throws him off for a few seconds.

“I mean, I don’t want you to do anything in particular, you know? Except for being, well, happy, I guess, if you want. At least comfortable? And—I’m rambling, sorry.”

He finally shuts his mouth, his heart is racing, and he still doesn’t know if he had even really managed to express what he wanted to express, or hadn’t even _known_ that he wanted to express.

The room is silent for a moment, with the exception of the low rumble of the Friday night traffic outside the window. Kevin is still sitting on the couch with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Okay,” he says finally, after what seems like a moment of careful consideration. “I—okay.”

And he looks so uncomfortable that Connor curses himself for forcing all of that onto him in one go like that.

“Sorry,” he hurries to say. “I didn’t mean to, well. I guess I just wanted to say that I would prefer it if you… could just try to think of yourself. Instead of me.”

~*~

The words circulating in Kevin’s brain, lingering at the tip of his tongue, are ‘you’re not sending me away?’ but he doesn’t dare to voice that yet, maybe not ever. Connor’s genuineness is strangely freeing, even to Kevin, but it’s overwhelming, and he can sense what Connor wants from him and it is just… one hell of a standard to try and live up to.  

“I’m not sure if I _can_ ,” he replies, as tiny twitches of desperation are beginning to localize themselves in his stomach and lungs. He takes a breath to try and steady himself. He has spent the entire day _waiting_ , but he doesn’t know for _what_. He feels off, somehow. Like someone has taken him and squeezed and pulled until he is mentally forced inside out. _Wrong_. “I’m not really _anyone_ anymore, so I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Of course you _are_ someone,” Connor interrupts, taking a step closer before hesitating, seeming to sense Kevin’s discomfort at being hovered over. “You’re _Kevin Price_. Who could beat _that_?”

Kevin winces at the sound of his full name being uttered so _easily_. “But I’m _not_ anymore, right? I haven’t been for years.”

Connor frowns at him, scratches the top of his hand with the other. “You’re still _you_.”

The sudden anger bubbling in his chest feels sharp and terrifying. Because he is too _tired_ for this, because Connor can’t possibly know what it’s _like_. Kevin takes another breath, and it doesn’t help him feel steady anymore, it makes him feel sick. “My parents signed me away,” he finds himself saying, even though he isn’t sure where he is going with it. Maybe his voice is shaking a little. “I’ve been in the system for _years_.”

“I know,” Connor says mildly, and it looks like his awkwardness has lessened in the face of Kevin’s distress. A voice inside Kevin is screaming at him to hold himself together, but it is not any instructor or trainer’s voice; it’s his own. “But Kevin--”

“That’s not _my_ name anymore,” he snaps, then stops himself, slightly horrified, because the voice in his mind starts to intermingle with the droning voices from the center, _be humble be respectful be submissive_. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Connor says hastily. “It’s fine. Please tell me.”

“I don’t know what to say.” The burst of energy starts to seep from him, leaving him even more tired than before. It is like Connor is tearing feelings out of his chest as though he removing thorns with a plier. Or perhaps he is pushing them into him, leaving Kevin sore and violated. “I’m tired.”

“Sorry,” Connor repeats, his mouth pulled into a strange grimace. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s not my place to insist.”

It kind of _is_ , but Kevin is not petty, or brave, enough to point that out. “I know you mean well,” he says, forcing himself to speak slowly to keep himself from stumbling over words or his own need to breathe. “Logically, at least.” Because he _does_ know that. He knows that Connor is probably one of the least threatening people that he has ever met, with the exception of maybe Arnold. Connor may have the ability to be authoritative, but his emotions are much too transparent for him to ever feel very imposing. “I _do_ know it, but I don’t know how to _feel_ it. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not your fault.” Connor shakes his head. “You scared me yesterday, though.”

“Sorry,” Kevin repeats, feeling like a broken record. In retrospect, he is embarrassed, but it’s dulled, like everything except his anxiety “I don’t know what that was. I…panicked.”

“You don’t have to apologize. But please.” Connor gestures to his mouth, and when Kevin looks at him, he realizes that Connor is flushing. “Please don’t kiss me again? Unless _you_ want to. I _mean_.” His eyes widen, and he actually raises his hands to hold them against his cheeks, as though he can feel the heat there; Kevin feels a stitch of amusement in his chest, surprisingly pleasant in its mildness, as though his feelings are leveling out, or he is just getting more used to acknowledge them. “You can do whatever you want, but I’m _asking_ you to please not kiss me. Okay I’m going to stop talking now.”

“Okay,” Kevin says, and he is getting used to seeking out Connor’s eyes now, which had been strange to him a couple of weeks ago. Eye-contact is a sign of equality, but Connor had been so continuously uncomfortable with anything Kevin had done that indicated obvious subservience. Now, it is Connor who won’t face him, which is… strange.

Instead Connor turns towards the kitchen table. “I bought cookies.” He busies himself with one of the packages. “It’s Friday night, so we can indulge, right? Ginger and chocolate chip.”

“Oh.” Kevin watches him, would have been thrown off by the change of subject if he hadn’t understood all too well why Connor had wanted it. In fact, Kevin is relieved by it. “Before dinner?”

“We’re grown-ups.” Connor finally meets his eyes, cheeks still a little red. “We can do what we want.”

That is kind of a modification of the truth, at least in Kevin’s case, but he doesn’t want to ruin the mood by bringing it up. Besides, the chopped vegetables in the kitchen can wait a couple of more hours.

He probably won’t eat any chocolate chip cookies if he can help it, can still feel a ghost memory of the rich chocolate covering the roof of his mouth, Mrs. Miller’s insistent, pleading eyes. He doesn’t think he will ever want to eat chocolate again, ever.

Connor hasn’t said a word about sending Kevin _back_. The possibility is still there, looming somewhere before him; he can’t trust that the feeling will ever properly go away because the _possibility_ won’t.  

But Connor’s shyness, at least, is comforting where it once used to be frustrating, and Kevin does like ginger cookies, he thinks, even though it has been years since he tried one last. He stands up and heads over to the cupboard, hesitating with his hands over the cups.

“Do you want milk or tea?” he asks, and it is _nice_ to let things go for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delays in updating! Thank you for your patience and I hope I'm not letting you down with this. ♥


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been terrible at replying to your comments, but I appreciate each and every one of them so much, you have no idea! I'm sorry for the lateness of this chapter.

Weeks turn into months. It gets chillier outside, so Connor and Kevin make another trip to the thrift store to pick out winter clothes. It is a memorable occasion, if only because Kevin accidentally says _no_ to something for the first time in years. Connor doesn’t seem to notice the significance of the word, merely grimaces as though personally insulted that Kevin isn’t inclined to try on the coat that he had picked out, then whirls around to go search for something that might be more suitable.

Kevin is left behind to deal with his personal crisis by himself between the racks of threadbare and unwashed jackets and shirts. He doesn’t know which part is the most disorienting: the fact that he had found the energy within himself to form a spontaneous opinion about something as minor as the cut and color of a hideous winter coat, or the ease with which he had expressed it without even considering a repercussion. It hadn’t hurt to say, but when he thinks about it, the word _no_ stings in his consciousness.

Sometimes Kevin thinks that he might be slipping towards something that feels dangerously close to insanity. There are moments when it feels like he is floating, like his mind is dangerously lost in an expanding void with nothing to anchor it to. He can even feel himself flicker in different directions, taken there by particular memories; church services and family dinners, the two dreamlike, nightmarish, _free_ years in Uganda; crystal clear moments of humiliation from his Buyers, all of it surrounded by hazy indifference and the mantras and rules from the Center. Those are all wildly different parts of him, different building stones that make up his person, but it is like he is lacking the mortar to keep all of it together in a sensible way.

Work is a routine that he can hold on to. He appreciates the comfortable hours before noon where he takes care of the regular paperwork and organizes the spreadsheets in-between the occasional phone calls. Kevin has always been structured in the way he works, even when he had just been a kid striving to excel at everything he possibly could.

At noon he usually has lunch with his co-workers. He is aware of that he is the odd bird in the little group, the only one that is not part of the family in any way, but they are all so very _decent_ in an almost unsettling way. They seem to accept Kevin’s polite indifference to them without appearing offended, they simply leave him be without (probably mainly due to the former Elder Thomas) necessarily excluding him. It is not that different to any of the administrative working positions that Kevin has taken over the years, with the one distinct difference that he is treated like a person.  

He suspects that they are embarrassed for his sake and about his situation; Kevin feels their reluctance to acknowledge his collar to the point that he himself almost remembers the feeling of humiliation that had hunted him during his first year in the system.

It had been difficult for him to come to terms with being seen as _less_ than other people, to the point that he had been seen as _difficult_ during his first couple of months at the Center. He had almost forgotten about that; it has been years since Kevin was around anyone that made him care about the impression he was making. But these people continuously acknowledge his presence, they ask him for his opinions, and they make gruff jokes that Kevin politely smiles at.

He can understand why Connor is so attached to these people.

Work is starting to feel _safe_ , since there is very little that can be threatening there. He recognizes the feeling in the way his body is somehow rewiring itself in subtle ways. Eating is becoming less and less of a chore and he even finds himself gaining weight; his ribs stop being prominent when he looks at his reflection in the mirror after taking a shower. His body somehow feels warmer, as though he has been unconsciously freezing for some time now.

But even though he appreciates his workplace, Kevin is glad when Connor stops by to pick him up at the end of each day.

His world revolves around Connor McKinley, the way the life of the Buyer _should_ be the focal point of the Worker’s existence, and there is really nothing either of them can do to change that. There is an important difference, much in the same way that _Arnold_ had been different from all the other people that Kevin had ever called friends before him. Around Connor, Kevin wants to somehow do _better_ , though he is not sure if that means that he wants to offer a better _service_ or a better _himself_.

Connor is—well, he has an inherently strong personality, one that he had always failed to suppress. He wears his heart on his sleeve most of the time, he still tries to hide any eventual discomfort with forced cheer, he can be shockingly judgmental even though he is inherently kind. Kevin feels drawn to his personality like a moth to a flame and he doesn’t know how he feels about that.

He will always be dependent on other people to feed him, dress him, give him the necessities to survive, but he has never counted on being emotionally attached to someone, ever again. He logically knows that it is a bad idea, but he doesn’t know how to stop it. Maybe he is simply hungry for the occasional displays of lingering shreds of the admiration that Connor used to harbor for him. He had enjoyed the attention back then, maybe a part of him still does.

It hurts.

The indifference that he used to be so good at slipping into had been better, though. It may have been framed with bursts of anxiety from time to time, but it had been safer. A few months ago Kevin hadn’t cared, as long as he could just keep going with as little fuss as possible from himself, from the system, and especially from his Buyers. Indifference had been the best way to guard himself from the hopelessness.

Kevin can’t even hate Connor for pulling him out of it, anymore.

Sometimes he thinks about that poor girl that Connor had asked him about back when they had first been reunited, the girl that had committed suicide. In a warped, terrible sense, he finds that he admires her. She had dared to go through with something that Kevin had only ever idly thought about. He is too much of a coward to do anything like that, ever. Maybe it is out of some sort of misplaced fear of where he is going to end up after death. Once upon a time he had believed in an afterlife, of going to a place where his parents had hoped that they would meet up again once Kevin had atoned for everything that he had done wrong.

But Kevin doesn’t know _what_ he believes anymore. Maybe nothing; except that he is afraid of the possibilities. He doesn’t even particularly want to meet his parents in the afterlife. That might be the worst punishment of all, even worse than ending up… somewhere else. His parents might forgive him then, but he doesn’t think that he will even be able to forgive _them_.

It has been a while since he had last thought about his family.

Kevin stares at his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks have been filling out lately; he barely recognizes himself, though he bets that Connor does, that Arnold would have if they were to meet. He runs his fingers through his hair, then takes the comb to try and entice some volume into it, frowning at his reflection.  

Where are his siblings now? His sister should be eleven by now, or something like that. Is she as stubborn as she used to be? Jack has been back from his mission for years; he is probably married by now. Maybe Kevin has a few nieces or nephews, without even knowing it.

What had his parents told his siblings about his whereabouts? Does his mother ever think about him?

Do they miss him at all?

He hopes that they do, he realizes, almost shocked that he finds it in himself to bring forth any sort of feeling regarding his family. Or rather, he hopes that his siblings remember him fondly. When it comes to his parents, he honestly hopes that they _miss_ him. He hopes that they feel bad. He hopes that they will never get the chance to meet him, ever again.

Kevin jumps when he feels a warm hand on his upper arm and he drops the comb. It clatters as it falls against the sink; he follows it with his eyes, then raises them to meet Connor’s eyes in the mirror.

“Sorry, are we late?” he asks, trying to push away the frustration over having gotten so shocked by his Buyer’s presence. It’s his own fault for not locking the door.

“What’s wrong?” Connor asks, ignoring his question. His voice is gentle, and Kevin doesn’t quite know if it sets him on the edge of if he finds it strangely soothing. He decides on the former; he is not a wild animal that needs soothing.

He presses his lips together for a moment, unwilling to admit to someone else that he had chosen this particular morning to realize that he harbors something like hatred towards his own parents. Furthermore, it is strange to feel angry like this. He doesn’t know if it is a good or bad thing. “Nothing.” He fumbles for the comb, dries it off on one of the hand towels. “Just tired.”

“Slept badly?”

“I slept okay.” Kevin sets the comb aside and tries to push his hair up with his fingers, but it falls flat again.

He knows that Connor feels constantly guilty for not not providing a better place to sleep than the ratty old couch and nothing that Kevin says seems to convince him that it is fine. He has slept in way worse places after all, including, but not limited to, the thin bed that had been his back in Katgali.

Connor hesitates, then reaches past Kevin to grab his toothbrush. “You need a haircut.”

“You think?” His tone is more sardonic than he had intended; he presses his lips together again, more out of frustration than out of fear for retribution. It is like the longer he spends with Connor, the less control Kevin has over himself and his own reactions.

Connor gives him a startled look in the mirror, then smiles, looking genuinely amused. “Want me to help you with that?”

Kevin hesitates. “You’re going to give me a missionary haircut, aren’t you?” He has had several different haircuts over the years, from the simplest possible with an electric razor at the Center, to the haircuts that high class stylists had given him when he had worked for some of the more exclusive Buyers. Anything is better than either of those alternatives, really.

Connor grins at him. “It’s the only one I know how to give."

* * *

 

That afternoon, Kevin finds himself sitting on one of the chairs in the kitchen with Connor standing behind him, carefully going through his hair with a wet comb. It feels good against his scalp, good enough for him to close his eyes for a while.

Had this been Mrs. Miller he would have been waiting for the occasional tug on his hair merely for the sake of keeping him on edge. If it had been Mr. Adams there would eventually have been cold-lipped kisses to his neck, whisky-stale breath finding its way into Kevin’s personal space. Not that either of them had even done this. They had controlled his appearance the same way they owned and controlled everything else about him, but they had never spent time on personally giving him this type of impersonal care.

“You’ve got pretty thick hair,” Connor says, bringing him out of his reprieve. He opens his eyes.

“Sorry.” He focuses on carefully keeping his head still. “I can’t help it.”

He can hear Connor laugh a little at that. “That’s fine. You’re going to have to return this favor sometime, though. Going to a hairdresser is expensive. I hope you know how to give someone a haircut.”

Kevin doesn’t. “I can try.”

There is a pause before Connor says, “Or maybe I’ll just ask Poptarts to help me out.”

Kevin frowns at the wall he is facing, surprised by the sting of jealousy that he has to take a breath to properly suppress. “Okay.”

Connor snorts out another laugh, startling Kevin to the point that he tries to turn around to see what is so funny, but Connor pushes his head back. “Stay still, otherwise I’ll mess this up.” He laughs again. “Sorry, I was just teasing. Would you really let me go to Poptarts for a haircut? I’d come home looking like a seagull.”

“Well I don’t know,” Kevin defends himself lamely, even as he finds a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the mental picture.

“Knowing you, you’ll probably do a great job. You always do.”

The comment throws him. He remembers, for a fleeting moment, what it had been like to be envied, but the feeling is shot down before he is able to process it or miss it. Besides, Connor doesn’t _envy_ him. He knows that Connor used to _admire_ him, but that had been a long time ago. It has most likely been replaced with pity now, and that fact is strangely hard to swallow.

Kevin presses his eyes closed against the rush of—something in his stomach. “I can try,” he repeats.

There is a pause after that, during which more and more of Kevin’s hair falls to the floor in surprisingly heavy locks. He hadn’t been aware that it had gotten that long already. The silence makes him begin to relax into the touch of Connor’s fingers against his scalp.

“Hey,” Connor says after a while. “Is it okay if I ask what you were planning to do? When you came home from Uganda.”

He sounds almost apologetic to be asking, but to Kevin this possible future is so far gone, he can’t even feel bitterness about it any longer. “I was going to college. Classes at the BYU at first, until I figured out what I wanted to do.”

“You didn’t have a specific dream?”

“I dreamed about being a missionary,” Kevin says dryly. “Everything else was secondary.” Connor doesn’t reply to this, so he elaborates. “I wanted to do something that would help people. I just didn’t know what.”

“Oh.” Connor combs his fingers through Kevin’s hair, messing it up, then brushes it back down again as though he is checking for uneven strands.

“Did you do what you dreamed about?” Kevin asks curiously. He has never really considered why Connor had started working at the Centre, or what exactly he had studied to end up there. The textbooks that Connor has in his bookshelf indicates something with social studies, which isn’t exactly what Kevin had expected of him. But then, back in Kigali, Kevin had never really stopped to think much about their district leader’s possible academic inclinations.

“I don’t know.” Connor sounds like he is hesitating. “I guess in a way I also wanted to help people. That’s why I studied what I did. I didn’t want to end up at the Centre, however.”

“Oh.” Kevin supposes not many people would want to work there. For him it may be the most homelike place he has, but it is not—it’s not a _good_ place. “Okay.”

“Clarice is convinced that we’re doing important work, but I don’t know. It feels like we can’t do _nearly_ enough to help anyone.”

“Unless the domestic service system is abolished, you really can’t,” Kevin agrees.

“Oh?” Now Connor sounds curious, and Kevin understands why. It is not often that he offers, or even finds that he _has_ opinions about anything, but this had slipped out of him before he had even had the time to think about it.

“No decent person pays for a personal servant.” He finds himself floundering as he tries to elaborate. He thinks that Connor _must_ know, by now, how most domestic service workers, how _Kevin_ , are treated. That doesn’t mean that Kevin likes thinking about it; beyond the disgust and the terror he still feels, will probably never stop feeling, it is especially humiliating when it is put in relation to the people that used to know him _before_. Perhaps especially Connor, who used to hold him in such high esteem.

“Oh,” Connor says again, sounding hesitant and almost guilty, and Kevin bites his lip as he remembers that _Connor_ is technically paying for domestic services at this particular moment.

“I mean--” He cuts himself off, frustrated. The silence that follows bothers him—a couple of months ago he wouldn’t have cared. “My first Buyer was a—a, well, it doesn’t matter. He said he needed someone to look after his children—and I _did_ that, among other things.”

He can’t bring himself to elaborate. He is not allowed to talk about his previous Buyers, or course, but he has done several things in the past few months that he is technically not supposed to be doing “My point is, you can’t really disprove of what the Buyer’s claim, unless they’re _seriously_ weird, I suppose. And since _we’re_ allowed to talk about it--” he shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant about it.  

His insides feel raw, but it is his own fault. He feels the increasingly familiar sensation of his mind beginning to tug itself in a million different directions at once, as though it wants to pull out of him entirely. Funnily, what anchors him is the careful way in which Connor wordlessly keeps massaging his scalp.

Connor seems to recognize that this is not a good time to push him. He merely continues to cut Kevin’s hair until he finally sets the scissors aside and runs his fingers through his hair one last time.

“There. All done.” His cheer sounds suspiciously forced. “I’d hug you now if I thought you’d like it.”

“Go ahead,” Kevin says quietly. He doesn’t remember anyone ever asking for permission to hug him. Not even Arnold had ever done that.

When Connor walks around to face him, Kevin is surprised to see that his eyes are red-rimmed. He raises his eyebrows when he takes in Kevin’s new hairstyle. “Wow. You look--” He cuts himself off, shakes his head, and leans down to carefully wrap his arms around Kevin’s neck. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

It is a bit of an awkward position, but Connor doesn’t give Kevin enough to stand up. He hugs him tightly, but it doesn’t feel invasive at all. It is intimate, but in an entirely good way. Kevin’s head is forced upwards so that his face is pressed over Connor’s shoulder. He can feel the scent of Connor’s sweet-smelling after-shave.

To keep his heart from racing. Kevin takes a deep breath and slowly tries to come up with a word to describe this new feeling in his chest. He awkwardly realizes that his arms are still by his sides, so he lifts them to rest his hands on Connor’s back.

“Tell me when to stop,” Connor says again, quietly, and Kevin nods against his neck.


	11. Chapter 11

Connor gives Kevin a blanket for Christmas, bright pink and lined with sequins; it is hideous of course, bad enough to cause a fair amount of amusement in the room, especially when Kevin smiles carefully, drapes it over his shoulders and keeps it there until it is time for lunch.

They had slept at Poptarts’ parents’ house last night, had even been given the luxury of a private, albeit tiny room amidst all the parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles that are crowding the house. The sheer amount of people is overwhelming but not entirely unwelcome, even though it brings back memories of _before_ in a way that Kevin doesn’t quite know how to handle.

He has been to Christmas parties a couple of times as a Worker, but that had been in the defined role as a servant--or a trophy. The role had come with detailed instructions beforehand about what to wear, how to act and what needed to be done, and the easiest approach had been to consider the parties as missions where failure was not an option. Looking at it like that, it had almost been fun, in a strange and perhaps disturbing kind of way. But he has always been one to appreciate a clear goal.

In the extended Thomas household he is a guest, however, which—complicates things. It feels a bit like when he is at work, except that everything is louder and _more_. It is somewhat disorienting and Kevin truly doesn’t know when he started to _care_ about what these people thought about him.

Maybe it is because it reminds him of _home_ , of the large family celebrations in the Price household, except _there,_ Kevin’s strive to uphold a good image had always been successful. Now he feels like he is approaching the problem from the very bottom; every movement, every word he needs to say feels forced, unnatural. In the end, keeping a low, carefully polite profile is safer, less likely to reflect badly on him and Connor, which is why he ends up sitting at the edge of the room and simply observing the proceedings while people open their Christmas gifts that morning.

One of the upsides of being so many people for Christmas, however, is that there is no way that everyone can bother or afford to buy gifts for everyone, so Kevin and Connor had simply bought some chocolates for the hosts and exchanged gifts with each other and that is that, or so Kevin thinks until Karen, the woman that Kevin had worked alongside for a couple of weeks before she had left for maternity leave, joins him on the floor by the window, handing him a wrapped package. “Here.”

Kevin tears his eyes away from where had been watching Connor and Poptarts exchange gifts across the room to accept it. “Um, thanks. I—I didn’t get you anything.”

Karen smiles and shrugs. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing special.”

He offers her a somewhat guilty smile and begins to unwrap the gift.

This Christmas had marked the first time in years that he had felt the weight of responsibility to find a gift – to Connor, of course. Thankfully, Connor’s fondness for Christmas decorations seems to know no boundaries. The apartment had been covered in impressive amounts of tinsel and colored lights since the first of December, to the point that Kevin can’t tell if he enjoys it or if it makes him slightly nauseous. It is all very _Connor_ , however, which is its saving grace. It makes it easier to pick out a gift for him, too; Kevin had bought a pair of Christmas-themed candlesticks during one of his walks and Connor had looked happy enough when he had opened the gift, even though Kevin secretly suspects that he could have given Connor _anything_ and it would still have made him ecstatic.  

Besides, the gift had technically been paid for with Connor’s money, given that all of Kevin’s paychecks go directly into one of Connor’s accounts, even if this one is specifically labelled ‘Kevin’ and is connected to an ATM-card for which Connor had given him the PIN code and had then refused to look at it when Kevin had tried to hand him the paperwork.

Now, he holds the pair of mittens that Karen has given him. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been teaching myself to knit, though Lord knows how I find the time.” Karen smiles apologetically. “To be honest I made them for my husband, but it turns out that he has the tiniest hands known to man. Try them on.”

Kevin does. “They’re great.” He holds his hands up to show her. The yarn is soft and the knitting is not entirely even, but Kevin finds that it truly is the thought that counts. Even though he knows that he will not be allowed to keep them once he is back at the center, where all personal belongings are confiscated during the sign-in process after each contract ends.

Karen smiles, looking pleased. “Keeping you warm seems to be a bit of a theme,” she says, nodding to the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

He shrugs, but allows himself a moment to feel amused over Connor’s gift, even though he honestly loves it as much as he can allow himself to. “I’m not complaining.”

“I guess you’re not.” Her smile softens. “So, how are you?”

He opens his mouth to answer the question automatically, then pauses, hesitating.

Karen seems to sense his confusion. “I’ve been reading more about the System, ever since I met you,” she explains, glancing away. “From what I learned, I think it’s a valid question. But I’m sorry, maybe it’s intrusive?”

“It’s fine,” he assures her, honestly. “I just… I don’t know how to answer.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

He tries not to squirm, feeling surprisingly scrutinized all of a sudden. Maybe that is a testament to how much space Connor has been giving him lately, that Kevin finds it in himself to require privacy. At the Center, not even his thoughts are private, not because he is in any way forced to confess them, but because they are all taught _what_ to think and do. Every time he is on a contract he finds himself slipping from that, a little, to accommodate for the new set of requirements from his Buyer, but he always ends up back at the Center again before too much damage is done, reciting the same short mantras over and over again. He has never slipped as much as he has now though, thanks to Connor.

“It’s not bad either. Connor’s good. We’re—it’s good. It makes me want to _stay_.” He stops himself, feeling almost confused by what he is saying. He hadn’t planned to say that, even though it is a surprising relief to get it off his chest. He begins to take the mittens off, inhaling carefully while he does, as though that will somehow help him keep his feelings better contained.

“Stay with Connor, you mean?” she asks. “Isn’t that the plan?”

“Yeah, well. I’m expensive.”

She looks hesitatingly amused. “You sound like you’re bragging.”

He grimaces, but actually feels his cheeks heat up. “It’s not a good thing.”

“Okay.” She looks confused, but reaches out to squeeze his blanket-clad shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll work out."

Empty words, but well-meaning. Kevin smiles politely at her, then glances to his left again, where Connor is laughing at something Mr. Thomas is saying.

* * *

After swallowing his last bite of lemon meringue pie, Connor lets his spoon rest on the plate and leans back in his chair, trying not to moan.

“I tell myself every year that I won’t eat as much this time,” he tells Poptarts ruefully, letting one hand rest on his stomach. “But I never keep the promise.”

“I know the feeling.” Poptarts looks comfortable and pleased, then reluctantly puts his hands on the edge of the table, as though preparing himself to stand. “But since you’re complaining, do you want to work off some calories? We need to get the camp beds from the garage, for Uncle Jimmy’s family.”

“You should really ask Kevin, he’s stronger than me,” Connor begins, then glances to his left where Kevin still seems preoccupied with trying to keep up with the ramblings of Karen’s six-year old son. It is a bit amusing and rather comforting to see that some things never do change; Kevin had been just as awkward with the curious children in Uganda as he is with Poptarts’ younger relatives. “On second thought…”

He follows Poptarts out of the dining room and through the back door into the garage, from where they manage with their combined strength to maneuver the beds up the stairs. Connor finds himself sinking down on one of them, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I hope this was the last one.”

“What, tired already?” Poptarts challenges, despite the fact that he seems even more winded than Connor. He follows Connor’s example and sinks down on the bed as well, leaning back. “So, how are things going with you and Price?” he asks easily. “You haven’t called me and freaked out in a while.”

Connor grimaces at that. “We’re doing better. I mean—we’re dealing with stuff.”

“Okay.” Poptarts sounds unnaturally neutral, causing Connor to turn his head to look at him. “I just… worry a bit.”

“About what?”

There is a pause then, before Poptarts asks, “Are you dating anyone?”

That is not a question that Connor had expected. “No. Why are you asking?”

Poptarts is doing something strange with him mouth that makes him look exceptionally uncomfortable. “I know it’s none of my business. But… do you ever think that having Price stay with you is putting your life on hold?”

Connor stares at him. “It’s a little too late to consider that, don’t you think? I can’t exactly send him back to the Center… I don’t _want_ to send him back. Besides, we’re just… we’re roommates. Sort of.”

“Except that you’re still in love with him.”

Connor very nearly snaps at him, but manages to stop himself; thinks about it. Things are not the same between him and Kevin as they used to be back in Uganda, he knows that. They are much less personable with each other, and Connor intentionally tries to keep his distance to give Kevin space. Kevin himself seems caught between trying to approach Connor and look to him for guidance, at the same time as he seems to guard his private space almost possessively. Not that there had ever been anything truly there, even in Uganda. That had been Connor’s personal wishful thinking, and in the end it had probably caused him more woe than joy. Poptarts, of all people, knows this.

And yet, Connor can’t seem to help himself. He doesn’t know _what_ it is about Kevin exactly, just that there is something there. Maybe it’s based on memories. Maybe it’s based on the surges of strange protectiveness, something that Connor admits to never really have felt before. He finds himself gravitating towards him like a moth to a flame.

“I’m not in love with him,” he says, and hates how pitiful he sounds. “I can’t be. And even if I was… it wouldn’t matter. He could never consent. Not properly.”

“As long as you know that,” Poptarts says, uncharacteristically gently. “And, he’s… he is not the person he used to be, Con. I’ve heard what my cousins say about him at work. He’s quiet, withdrawn… I think he’s broken. Understandably so, but still.”

A sharp stab of anger. “No one is _broken_ , Chris.”

Poptarts holds his palms up. “Sorry. That’s just what I think.” A pause, then he continues, awkwardly and while looking away. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you… uh, cry.”

Connor opens his mouth to protest, then thinks better of it when he realizes that his eyes are actually burning. “I’m sorry too. I know you mean well. But you’re right… it’s really none of your business.”

Poptarts holds his hands up again, apologetically, but says nothing else.

They sit in silence for a moment, then, Connor manages to take a deep breath that doesn’t shake. “Thank you.”

Poptarts looks at him with raised eyebrows.

“For always inviting me here,” Connor elaborates. “I really appreciate it, you know. My family never had this type of big parties but… this feels like home, now. It’s good to have someplace to go. And your family had always been nice to me, even though I’m, well.”

He doesn’t need to say it. Sometimes he thinks that it is not even the fact that he is that he is gay that is the biggest issue in this family, but rather the fact that he is so… much. But even so, while he is sure that he has raised a fair share of eyebrows through the years, he has never felt hostility here, only acceptance and even fondness.

“Jeez.” Poptarts smiles back, hesitatingly, and pokes Connor’s foot with his own. “You know my mom would never forgive me if I stopped inviting you. You’re stuck with us.”

“I guess I’ll just have to get used to it.” Connor says and manages to keep his smile steady.

* * *

Kevin expects to remain hyper-vigilant at lunch, ready to be polite no matter what type of comment or question is thrown his way. But then one of Karen’s sons attaches himself to Kevin’s side, seemingly fascinated with the only true (and likely somewhat forbidden) stranger in the house, and he seems keen to impress Kevin with his age (six) and interests (mainly medieval castles).

At one point, Karen tells her son to stop being a pest, but Kevin assures her that it is fine. Having something to focus on except Connor helps him relax during the somewhat boisterous meal.

It is not an unpleasant Christmas lunch in any way, though. The food is good, the atmosphere is friendly and Kevin finds himself able to ignore the few curious looks his collar receives from the people that he has not been properly introduced to.

And, he learns a lot about medieval castles.

Once dinner is over and people are beginning to stray from the table, Kevin is finally freed from the six-year old’s attention. Once he is left alone, he looks over to his side for Connor, only to realize that his Buyer has already left the table. So Kevin thanks Mrs. Thomas for the dinner and slips away as discreetly as he can.

The hallway is empty; it feels good to get a moment to breathe. He peers into a few rooms, wondering where Connor has disappeared to, then heads towards the stairs. He puts his hand on the rail, then pauses when the voices reach him. First Connor’s, inaudibly, and then Poptarts’.

_“-- say about him at work. He’s quiet, withdrawn… I think he’s broken.”_

It is not difficult to guess who Poptarts is talking about. A couple of months ago, Kevin wouldn’t even have had the energy to care about it. Now, he is surprised by the stab of hurt in his chest, even as he wrinkles his nose at himself for his reaction. Shame rises to the surface, enough of it to cause his face to burn.

He lets go of the handrail and walks quietly down the hall towards the bathroom, finding that he urgently needs a moment to himself, but he is forced to turn when he finds it occupied. Two young cousins run past him, shouting at each other; he ends up veering into the kitchen instead.

It is surprisingly, blissfully calm. Poptarts’ mother is stacking plates into the dishwasher and some other relative whose name Kevin doesn’t remember is filling the sink with warm water.

“Hello,” Mrs. Thomas says, looking surprised. They haven’t really spoken much beyond their brief introductions the night before, but Kevin can see her eyes straying to his collar for a second before meeting his eyes again. “Are you alright? You look a bit tired.”

His heart is still doing something strange in his chest, but he manages to smile politely. “I just needed a break. Sorry to intrude.”

“Oh, you’re not intruding,” the woman by the sink says easily and turns to face him. “Would you like to take over here, while I put the left-overs in the fridge?”

Kevin opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by Mrs. Thomas.

“He’s a guest, Jen, and he’s--”

“So am I, technically, but Lord knows I feel more at ease helping out sometimes. You have a big family, Carole, it can be overwhelming to someone new.”

“I don’t mind,” Kevin says hesitantly, and that is really all it takes for him to end up fitted with an apron and elbow-deep in soap suds and warm water, scrubbing baking dishes clean before handing them to Mrs. Thomas (“Carole, please”) to dry. She is carefully polite around him, perhaps surprised to have a new guest, male and perhaps especially one of his social status helping out in the kitchen. The other woman keeps up the small-talk for a while before being called away by her children, leaving the two of them alone in the kitchen.

Kevin finds himself relaxing into the chore, and the resulting silence gives him time to think. He has never considered himself in the term that Poptarts had used, but in the end it is true… isn’t it? Is that what people think of him?

“So,” Carole says with a strange voice after a while, breaking the silence. “Is it okay if I ask…?”

His eyebrows furrow, quizzical for a moment before she waves her hand in front of her own neck.

“Oh. Umm.” He still doesn’t know exactly what she is asking, but he gets the gist of it. “It’s been six years. I went in right after my mission. I knew Connor and Popt—Chris, in Uganda.” He rinses the baking dish and gives it to her. She accepts it with a stiff smile.

“But why?”

He pauses while reaching for the next dish to wash. Her tone of voice is almost challenging, and it sends prickles down his spine. “My parents. I had made it clear to them that I was leaving church once I got home and they didn’t… approve. I wasn’t twenty-one yet so…” He shrugs, knowing that it makes people embarrassed for his sake when they understand that his parents had effectively and willingly rendered him legally incompetent for the rest of his life, as though there is something _wrong_ with him.

“Oh,” Carole says, and the stiffness leaves her voice. “Oh… I thought…”

“That I had committed a crime?” he finishes, feeling absurdly hurt for what feels like the millionth time today. Six years, and he realizes that he has never even _considered_ the fact that people might think that he is in the System because he had been a _criminal_. He begins scrubbing the dish. Something has been burned into the edges and requires force before it comes off. “No,” he says. “But I guess, to my parents, I sort of did.” He pauses, suddenly uncomfortable with his own tone of voice. In another household, he might have faced repercussions for it.

“I’m sorry,” Carole says, her voice quiet. “Christopher never explain the details. He did assure us that he trusted you, but--” she shakes her head. “I know what it’s like to lose a child. That your parents would do something like that voluntarily… I can’t understand it.”

Kevin hesitates, unsure what to respond to that. He had seen a picture on the wall in the hallway, of a younger-looking Poptarts’ standing side by side with a blonde young woman. He remembers Poptarts explaining that she had passed away in cervical cancer several years before his mission. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he mumbles while he continues to scrub at the burned stains.

“Connor’s parents too,” she continues. “I know he’s not… _conventional_ , but he’s a sweet boy. We’re always glad to have him. And you too, of course.”

Kevin smiles a little, mostly politely, but nonetheless warmed by her sudden openness. He opens his mouth to thank her, but forgets it when Connor steps into the kitchen, his eyes somewhat red-rimmed in a way that makes Kevin frown in concern despite himself. Besides, it’s not Connor’s fault that Kevin had accidentally eavesdropped.

He seems surprised to see Kevin there.

“There you are,” he says. “I’ve been looking for you. Are you ready to leave?”

“Sure.” Kevin nods to the dish he is holding. “Can I just finish--”

“No need,” Carole interrupts. “I’ll take over. Thank you for your help.” She smiles, first at him and then to Connor. “Take care of each other.”

“Thank you for having us, Carole.” Connor beams at her while Kevin locates a dry kitchen towel to clean his hands on before struggling to get out of the somewhat too small apron. “Dinner was lovely, as usual.”

“You should visit more often,” Carole replies, reaching for the kitchen towel that Kevin had discarded to dry her hands before patting Connor’s cheek, then pulling him into a hug.

“We’ll try,” Connor replies once he is released, sounding somewhat guilty. “Oh, maybe you shouldn’t--” he says when Carole reaches for Kevin as well, but Kevin lets it happen, feels absolutely nothing except friendliness in her touch.

“Thank you,” he echoes Connor’s words from earlier when she lets him go, and with that, she waves them off to say goodbye to the rest of the guests and to pack up their things.

Their initial plan had been to drive back home while it was still light outside, but the sun has already set by the time they make it out to the car. Kevin folds himself into the passenger seat, weary after everything and quite relieved to be heading home. He watches Connor fumble with the car keys for a couple of seconds, all the while remaining suspiciously quiet. Connor is very rarely quiet, he has learned.

“Is everything alright?” he asks after a moment. He can’t very well suggest that he drive; he hasn’t driven a car in eight years and besides, Connor would be the one in trouble if they got stopped.

Connor looks at him, wide-eyed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kevin shrugs. He doesn’t feel comfortable prying; it is certainly not his place to do so. Thankfully, Connor finally gets the car started, and with it the stereo begins to play a soft Christmas tune. Kevin relaxes to the soothing voice of Aimee Mann while Connor gets them onto the highway.

“Do you miss your family?” Connor asks, finally. Kevin has nearly fallen asleep, has to blink to get both his eyes and thoughts to focus.

“I guess,” he says, glancing at Connor. “Not my parents though. Not after everything. Do you?”

Connor has never told him what happened with his parents; but from what Kevin has heard from other people—mainly Poptarts, he can guess.

The question hangs between them for a while before Connor answers.

“I… I used to be afraid that they would admit me to the System.”

“Oh,” Kevin says, momentarily stupefied. “Okay.”

“That’s why I waited to come out to them until I had turned twenty-one. I could have told them I was struggling with, well, _gay thoughts_ much earlier, but I didn’t dare to. I could have told them while we were in Uganda, but I didn’t dare to do it then either. Was that cowardly of me?”

Kevin is getting used to being asked for his opinions by now. His mind doesn’t feel as foggy. Not that this question is complicated in any way. “No. I think it was smart.”

Connor seems to think about that for a moment. “I know this is unfair of me to say, all things considered, but… I’m glad you’re here. I wish we could have met again under different circumstances.”

Connor is right, Kevin reflects; it is an entirely unfair thing to say, considering the fact that Kevin doesn’t have a _choice_. But it is difficult to be mad at Connor, because Kevin knows that he is at least being honest—and besides; sometimes, Kevin thinks that he might feel the same. He can’t even find it in himself to hate Connor the way he used to for bringing him out of the fog. He remembers Connor hugging him so tenderly, and he remembers Connor stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

“Me too,” he replies, simply, and after that they let the music fill the silence between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to all of you who have read so far. Only a few chapters left now! Thoughts and comments are very appreciated, either here or at my tumblr @ notlikelionking


End file.
